Turn and Face the Stranger
by Uhlowl22
Summary: Sequel to Ch ch ch changes. Crowley has to figure out how to get on in the aftermath of the unfinished third trial. Crowley's Season 9. Rated M for a reason. Integrated into Season 9 plot with Sam, Dean, Cas, and the whole lot of them. Crowley/Oc.
1. Can you feel me now?

Welcome back, and hello new readers. This is a sequel to Ch ch ch changes so you may want to take a quick look at that before starting this. This story is rated M for a reason, and this chapter is definitely rated M. I appreciate constructive criticism, and who doesn't like to hear that their work is appreciated, but no pressure. I hope you enjoy!

I do not own Supernatural...and I never will.

Can you feel me now?

Drifting lightly toward the waking world, Heather became aware that she was wrapped in delicious warmth, and that she was more content than she remembered having any right or reason to be.

Her eyes moved under their lids and her cheek slid against something soft and light. Strands of hair tickled her nose on a deep inhale, entire body aching in a way that gave oxygen to an ever dimming fire somewhere inside her chest. Her limbs were tangled so perfectly with Crowley's that she wouldn't think of moving, until he ran the tip of his nose up the length of her neck to place a soft kiss just below her ear. Appreciation hummed in her chest as she opened her eyes and pulled back to find Crowley awaiting her gaze. His eyes were bright and awake, but the sight of him breathless and wanting flashed through her mind drawing a small smile to her lips, one that Crowley now returned without an indication of reluctance.

Beneath her sat a man awash with happiness and affection, not a power mad sadistic King of Hell. Heather had changed that, if only temporarily, and it made the prideful lioness in her stretch and preen.

"Morning dove." Crowley whispered against her lips.

"Mmm, it can't actually be morning, can it?" Heather closed her eyes and touched her forehead to Crowley's as he squeezed their still naked bodies closer together.

"You're asking a man who doesn't even know what day it is dahling."

Heather's cloud of harmony dissipated instantly as her muscles coiled in shame. Crowley's face became awash with confusion, then insecurity, not knowing whether to release her from a grip that was past desperate. But the moment his arms slackened just a fraction Heather was pressing into him and tracing a bandage on his chest, drawing his eyes to her hesitant touch.

"I'm fine."

She ignored his words and continued to watch her fingertips trace the outline of the medical tape that seemed to be holding his body (she was no longer capable of thinking of it as his meat suit) together almost everywhere.

Crowley ran his knuckles down her cheek, lightly pinching her chin between his fingers. "It doesn't hurt. None of it hurts. How could it?"

She watched him, certain he wanted to say more, but the distant sound of footsteps drew both their attentions. Crowley froze, every muscle in his body tensed and strained beneath Heather as they listened to the steps pund closer. She vehemently disliked this new physical reaction, but Crowley was always watching her from the corner of his eye so she hid a scowl behind a soft smile and kiss to his cheek.

The knob turned and Crowley tried pulling Heather off his lap, instinctively trying hide her behind his body, but she just wriggled her way back firmly locking her arms around his neck and ankles behind his lower back. When the door wouldn't open no matter which way the knob turned, there came a loud pounding knock from the other side.

Dean then; Sam's knock would have been much more polite.

Heather pulled back and turned so she wasn't shouting in Crowley's ear.

"Could you please stop that? Crowley is sleeping."

Silence.

"Uh…Why's the door locked?"

"It's locked to keep out Prophets with anger issues." She ground out through a tensely clenched jaw.

Silence.

"Right." Dean almost sounded chastised. "Uh, do you need anything?"

"No. I have everything I need."

"Ok. Good." A few breaths of silence passed. "Keep this locked. Don't uh…don't want him using you to break outta Alcatraz."

While Dean's boot falls echoed away from the door, warm lips were reverently pressing to the hollow of her throat.

_I have everything I need._

Turning back earned her the soft nip of teeth on her chin. She melted into the warm darkness beneath and around her and waited blindly to feel his lips on hers. An empty moment passed; the stillness pulling at her sparkling eyes to slide open and meet Crowley's fathomless gaze, words seeming to reluctantly rolling toward the tip of his tongue. But instead of saying a word he brought his hand to his mouth and ran his tongue the length of his first two fingers. As the hand disappeared downward Heather's eyes made to follow, but Crowley stopped her.

"Look at me, please." There was a command in his voice, even if they _were_ spoken softly…and just out of reach of her lips.

She held his gaze until the second his fingers found their mark, and her eyelids fluttered. She must have unknowingly winced because Crowley immediately stopped his movement.

"Am I hurting you?" He tried and failed to keep the thickness of desire out of his voice.

Heather relaxed against him completely. "No no, I'm just…sensitive."

"Sore?" He asked apologetically, if not a tad prideful.

"A little." She admitted with a wry smile. "It's been…well it had been a while since…"

Crowley nodded a fraction, his eyes flicking to her lips. "Hmm…then I'll just have to go slow won't I?"

Heather smiled. It lately felt like she always had a smile waiting for him.

Crowley leaned forward ensuring his lips brushed the shell of her ear as he spoke. "Close your eyes love."

Heather hummed and obeyed.

Crowley had removed his fingers from the oversensitive nub and instead began tracing small indecipherable shapes along the inside of her thighs, each move taking him closer back to her center.

"Relax darling. Lean forward and rest your head on my shoulder." The brush of her hardening nipples against the tantalizing coarseness of Crowley's chest hair sent an aroused puff of breath across his neck as she settled.

With her eyes closed and his body supporting her weight, Heather had nothing to do but concentrate on the feel of his touch. His fingers floated along the smooth untouched skin in the crease of her thigh. With her legs wrapped around Crowley she was spread apart, completely vulnerable to the intoxicating swirling pattern of his caress.

"I'm not going to touch you until you ask me love." Crowley's voice vibrated through her and pulled a moan from her chest.

His fingers edged closer, lightly brushing her outer lips, running his fingertips up and barely scratching with his nails back down. Her arms tightened around his shoulders and her hips began to rock back and forth, unconsciously trying to guide his fingers to her center. That over sensitive nub was now a throbbing itch of neediness growing and cascading through her every second he continued the torture.

Crowley wasn't much better off, but he was determined that this wasn't for him; at this moment, and maybe for the first time in his existence, he was putting himself second. When she whimpered into his neck, her fingers restlessly scratching light circles into the skin of his shoulders, his resolve nearly shattered and his hips snapped forward seeking the heat that currently warmed his hand.

"Please. Crowley…Crowley…aaaaahpleeeeassse." Crowley's eyes rolled into the back of his head at the sound of Heather's sweet siren song.

"Please what love? Ask me Heather."

She kissed his neck then, softly biting at the skin, then soothing it with an indulgent lick of her tongue. Her breath puffed cool against the wet skin and sent a shiver through him as she finally broke.

"Please touch me Crowley." She sighed deeply, not bothering to hide the happily defeated smile that slowly formed on her lips pressed against the skin of his whiskered neck.

Her breath stopped in her chest as his fingers slid easily across the velvet smooth skin protecting the most highly concentrated bundle of nerve endings in a woman's body.

"No, no love, breathe." Crowley was unmoving, waiting for her slow and shaky exhale. His patience was easy as he waited for her to find the anchor she would need when he reciprocated the apocalyptic orgasm she gave him before they slept.

Time ceased to flow as Heather remained still, even after it became evident that he was purposefully holding out. As she had yet to begin writhing against him with his motionless fingers half buried in her folds, he felt an unexpected swell of pride for her unsolicited obedience. But when she began panting in earnest his resolve melted into the languid pace of his fingers finally moving against her.

Heather's body was joyously alive, but her mind couldn't be certain it wasn't a dream. It didn't seem possible to feel something like this; to be so perfectly played and guided and wanting…and so perfectly content to wait.

Unhurried and absorbed as a man searches in the dark, he circled and circled until her hips were circling with him. He changed pressures quickly sometimes and her rhythm would stutter and she would be lost, but he would slow down to let her catch up.

It was exquisite. It was catastrophically amazing. It was heaven.

She moaned his name with wanton abandon, not caring if she could be heard above ground three miles away, much less by any of the boys on the floor above her.

"Heather." Crowley was breathing just as erratically as she. His eyes glazed with so much lust he could have been about to cry. "Cum for me darling."

His movements sped up just a fraction and for the next few seconds she could only linger coldly at the edge, unable to drift over into the promised bliss.

"Crowley." Frustration and uncontrolled want painted his name as it passed through her kiss swollen lips.

"Come on love. Please."

She could feel his devastating hardness stroking the skin of her thigh now and again. The moment frenzied her senses and the only thing she could think of was holding him inside of her.

"Crowley I need…Crowley…" Her every muscle shook with the anticipation of a climax that just wouldn't arrive.

"What do you need love, what? Anything. Tell me." He was so out of breath he was almost gasping.

"I need…" Her right hand loosened from his shoulder and dragged down his chest to snake between them. She must have looked to him the same as he had the night before; defenseless, desirous, and destroyed.

"Crowley." She sighed out as her tongue swept across his lips, and her body slid down his length with a swift snap. The instant they were completely buried in each other they were coming undone together.

They were pressed so tightly together that Crowley had given up the movement of his fingers as she pulsed around his hardness. By the end of it he was seeing stars and the death grip he had on her with his free arm was the only thing to keep her from sliding out of his lap into a puddle on the floor.

For her part, Heather had never cum so hard in her life. Her body was releasing a myriad of hormones and chemicals into her blood stream and her body was humming with the vibration of her release and the tingle that spiraled up and up from where she and Crowley were still connected. At the release of the last bit of stress that had clung to her from the recent months she knew tears were spilling unbidden from her eyes and that Crowley would feel them on his unclothed skin. But she couldn't stop, and if he thought less of her for it there was nothing she could.

His fingers would bruise her skin where he released her around the waist, but that would matter later. That's not what had his post-coital fog clearing violently from his mind.

Crowley had realized, quite a while ago, that he was no longer able to observe, understand, and categorize Heather as he once may have done. Before, she had been barely interesting, and had absolutely nothing to offer him in the way of escape, or taking back Hell; nothing much to tempt the eye, or mind, or ego.

But that first day in his "room" encouraged his curious nature. The boys plan of letting him stew allowed for little in the way of entertainment, so he thought it less than harmless to indulge in her visits. Soon he found himself quietly anticipating the first few seconds after she walked in, when her scent would breeze over his skin and settle a restlessness Crowley had never before noticed. Her presence soothed absolutely, and he didn't want to just see a smile on her face, he wanted to be the one to have put it there. He had become attached, in a way that he never had been as a human, nor should have been capable of as a demon.

So this moment, when her tears hit his shoulder, he didn't think twice about kissing them away.

That's when they heard Dean scream.


	2. the worst of times

Welcome back. The chapter contains mature language. And yes I am completely enamored with writing this, but try not to get angry if I don't maintain the once a day chapter updates. Also just for confusions sake I'm letting you all know that I'm stretching out the season timeline for my own purposes. So sometimes what was 2 weeks on the show will end up being 2 months in this story. Any questions feel free to contact me either through review or PM. Enough with the babble, on with the show!

I do not own Supernatural...and never will.

...the worst of times

The sharp crackle of the funeral pyre had grated on her. Heather gnashed her teeth, chewed her cheek bloody…nothing could distract from the flames, not even the feebleness of her chest to suffer against caving in on itself.

She had never been to a hunters funeral. She had wanted to hold Deans hand and squeeze all of the words she couldn't say into a death grip of love, fear, and comradery. She wanted to rest her head against Sam's shoulder with his arm circled around her. She had _never_ wanted to help wrap the body of an ally in a clean white sheet and carry them to a carefully piled mass of wood. It was heartbreaking and numbing and just so god damn unfair.

Guilt was excavating itself a nice cozy spot for the long haul. Heather had been so angry at Kevin over Crowley, but she was far from heartless. Her ability to empathize had been such a godsend to her life. She could recall with perfect clarity the darkness that clawed at her back some years ago, driving her to find the fucker who had killed her father and… If given the chance to lay hands on, she would have done far worse than Kevin had to Crowley. She was only human, just like Kevin had been.

But now Kevin was dead, Sam had been taken, and Dean…

Being in the bunker was worse. An oppressive silence rang through the cavernous concrete haven, bounced off every surface, and knocked their hearts significantly deeper into their guts the instant they had walked through the door.

Heather swallowed the catch in her throat as Dean finally lashed out and the first books and lamp hit the floor. She closed her eyes as a chair sailed across the room, fracturing a leg as it landed. She tried to breathe; breathe and not think about Sam's absence, Kevin's burnt out eyes, or Dean screaming the prophets name while shaking the poor boys unoccupied body.

_Exhale_.

An errant and ridiculous thought skittered through her mind; never again would a campfire remind her of warmth and comfort.

_God, the smell._

She violently squeezed her eyes shut tight and stars exploded in front of a visual of Crowley moaning her name. Heather shook her head against the thought that only a few hours ago she was having literally the best sex of her entire life (and experiencing something she couldn't worry about at the moment) with a powerful demon, maybe-king of hell, titles, titles…

She should have been consumed by nothing but grief, anger, and defeat. But Crowley was in his room where she had hesitantly left him and she couldn't bear that her eyes continued to wander toward the staircase. Each time a new flame of bile rose in her throat at the shame of feeling something other than wretched while everything turned putrid and rotted around her.

She had to focus, and quick before Dean started wrenching books from shelves; something with which Sam would be wholly unimpressed. Heather could almost see the bitch face in her mind.

_Oh Sam…_

"DEAN!"

It was sudden and loud and shocked Dean entirely out of his rampage. He froze, hunched inward, shoulders tight, and fists clenching white.

The command Heather had made of his name had surprised her almost as much as him, so she took that moment of blissfully serene shock and rolled with it. The alternative was to stop and willingly roll back downhill where the shadows of defeat, grief, and guilt were screaming and clambering to pull her under.

She moved softly across the wreckage of the room and circled around to look up at Dean's relentless stoicism in the face of shit odds. His eyes stayed fixed on a spot over her head, his entire muscular system twitching to strike out again. Heather could feel the small tremors in his shoulder, evidence of the effort it was taking to reign himself in.

She squared herself off to Dean's body, her hands placed firmly on his shoulders, and repeated after Bobby's voice as it confidently echoed over her otherwise racing thoughts.

"What do we do next Dean?"

Those words would always be code. It was a command to keep moving forward; pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and kick it in the ass.

She watched his grief darkened green eyes as they slowly focused and moved to meet her resolved stare. In an instant he snapped out of it, going almost limp; the will to stay standing in the face of defeat would shortly be the only thing keeping him vertical. Heather knew that stance well.

"We call Cas." Dean croaked as he turned to look for the cell phone lost amongst the debris.

XxXxX

The slowly healing wounds stung with sweat, the mostly faded bruises throbbed, his muscles were tight and sore with two very different forms of exertion, and not since the day he claimed his kingdom had he felt so at rest.

The road to becoming King had been a bubbling cauldron of arrogance mixed with ingenuity and a whole lot of wickedness. The triumph was like being filled to the brim with an unstoppable relevance. He achieved the title of most eminent man in hell, and was therefore untouchable. His certainty had been concrete. But, as concrete slowly turns to dust, so too had that conviction. In the end, the only thing he had been able to salvage from the wreckage of his life and his failing reign was the easily slipped on façade of a powerful monster. His mask was carefully crafted, smoothed out and unyielding. He strove for that bite to his words, the abrasiveness of his glance, the cocky half grin that always managed to reach his eyes; so easily worn that it had stopped being a _façade_ a long, long time ago. But in that church Sam had been able to show him how devastatingly wrong he was, and the veneer began to crack.

For the first time in centuries Crowley was reminded what it was like to be filled with something other than lies, loathing, bile…

Sweet abhorrent Lucifer, it hurt.

Had it been any less like being flayed from the inside out, he would not have noticed. Still he craved it, ravenously so. From his vulnerable position as the last trial, he felt the deepest ache a human could feel. Sam had stood before him, deteriorating and paling with blood loss, and Heather sat hunched and bleeding, slipping in and out of awareness, while Crowley had desired nothing more than the acceptance that would allow him to stand next to them as a comrade, not a threat to be destroyed. He had wanted it so, so bad, and it had been excruciating.

In his dreams he would offer his neck to that needle again and again, and then _she_ would suddenly exist. Heather wasn't sharp, meant to burn, or jagged enough to shred. Her immediacy let him breathe comfortably, while gasping for that breath in her absence. Her touch effortlessly filled him with the humanity he now so frantically coveted.

_NO!_

A growl rolled from his throat to push through clenched teeth. He opened his eyes and looked around the small room. Heather had left the shelves open in her hurry upstairs. He could see the door to the hallway open as well. No one around…but even if he could get out of the devils trap, he had no idea if his powers would work in the boys tree house. His gut churned as his mind flashed scenarios of his escape, of the brutish way he could destroy anyone who stood in his way. Run them all through and tear…

Crowley felt sick and choked back a dry heave. Disgust roiled through his skin. He was Crowley, Lilith's right hand, King of the _god_ _damn_ Crossroads, and King of _fucking _Hell …yet his eyes trained themselves on the open outer door, willing Heather to round the corner; to calm the beast that was shredding his insides as it hollered and howled to burst through Crowley's chest and devour the lot of them.

The boys would never know, but this had been the most effective torture Crowley ever experienced.


	3. Caution Rough Road

Hello my faithful readers, thank you for your views, favs, follows, and reviews. This chapter is rated M for the use of language. I am hoping you all are in favor of the slow build I seem to be churning out. If anyone has any feedback, questions, suggestions or the like please feel free to contact me. This story might be my baby but I'm writing it for all of you. Even if this story only had a single reader that would be more than enough for me. I hope you all continue to enjoy. On with the show!

I do not own Supernatural...and I never will.

Caution Rough Road

Dean shoved the words from his mouth like they burned his tongue. The resulting voicemail would be vague and to the point, which would sound innocuous enough to Cas, who was still woefully untrained in the art of reading between the lines.

Simply watching Dean's robotic pacing had Heather's own muscles twitching in sympathy. The hardest moments of the evening were behind them as foul memories; nothing to do then but wait for Cas to reach the bunker. In the meantime her mind cried for a shower and the vacuity of sleep. Though, as Dean ended the call, Heather's feet moved doggedly toward the stairs.

"Heather…" Her name hung between them as a mournful sigh while Dean waited for her turn and face him.

"Dean, please. This night…let's not make it any worse, yeah? Let's just…at least try to sleep before the sun rises on a new chapter of this nightmare." She could have slumped into a chair at that moment and happily slept for a day, but still she turned back and took another step toward the stairs.

"And that's what you're going down there to do? _Sleep_?" There was no fight left in his voice.

Heather sighed and turned her face over the curve of her shoulder. "I'll gladly answer your questions if you feel up to answering mine."

It was an extremely cheap shot, Heather knew. She waited a few breaths before bidding Dean a soft good night and taking the first step down.

She suddenly wanted Crowley the way she sometimes wanted hot chocolate, or for her father to read her to sleep. The sudden longing had a part of her mind rebelling, reminding her that whatever else Crowley was, he was still a demon. Her entire life was filled with razor-sharp moments of proof that demons were dangerous monsters, not cuddly security blankets. None the less her quickened pace faltered the moment she saw his door open into the hall, and she cursed her brain to remember if she had left it open or…if…

Crowley's committed gaze accosted Heather as soon as she hastened her way through the doorframe. The instant their eyes connected leeched the tension from their bones.

"Glad to see you haven't engineered your own great escape." Her accompanying smile was weak at best.

Crowley visibly startled at her harried appearance. A mere few hours had effected too much change in her for Dean's screaming to have meant anything less than excessive calamity. He was so wrapped up in cataloging her obvious signs of distress; it took a few seconds to realize she had spoken. He ignored the pathetic attempt at wit completely.

"What's happened?"

Heather pursed her lips and let her eyes take a long blink; no longer caring that he was lately watching her like a hawk watches its prey.

She shook her head and smiled tightly. "I know…I can't…" She sighed frustrated. "I'm too damn tired for this shit anymore tonight." finishing with a quick woeful huff of laughter.

The dense knot in Crowley's stomach expanded and nerves fired on all cylinders as he found himself in waters he had never before dared enter. He could bark orders, slice open a screaming writhing soul and then go have lunch, but this conversation had him lost in the middle of the ocean where he was sure he would drown. He tried to pull from his limited, and long done, knowledge of traditional human interactions, but every word his mind offered up sounded apathetic, hollow, or inappropriate.

She could see he was struggling. They weren't in the exact same boat, but at least she knew they were in the same deep water, paddling right next to each other. It was an enormous comfort.

She decided again that it still didn't matter; convention or morality or whatever her father and the boys would have called it…she just couldn't make it matter in those moments with Crowley.

As she shuffled toward the mattress Crowley lost no time in making a comfortable amount of room for her; reeling between wanting to scoop her up and hold on, and thinking that he should have at her throat the demon knife she had so carelessly left on the table. In the end he did neither, as Heather made the decision for him.

She sat down hip to hip with Crowley and turned in toward his chest, leaning into his solid form until they were lying back on the bare mattress. She made herself comfortable, finally draping her arm over his stomach, locking him to her. Crowley's arm circled behind her shoulders, his other arm stretched across his body and cradled Heather's elbow, holding her to him just as tightly. With Crowley's cheek softly settled against the top of her head, Heather immediately drifted off into the oblivion of sleep.

Not nearly enough time had passed before Heather violently snapped awake and callously pulled her body from the cocoon of warmth in which it had been slumbering. She hugged her knees to her chest and squeezed, vehemently reminding herself that the horrible thumping there was better than utter stillness. Soon enough her head fell forward and breathing slowed.

Before her mind could register the sensation of Crowley's fingertips brushing her lower back, her body was reflexively flinching away from the fog of the nightmare from which she had finally emerged. As quick as she could have been on her feet and out the door, Heather was turning to face him perfectly, remembering the sting she'd felt when he'd been the one to pull away. She reached out and took gentle hold of the hand she'd recoiled from, and brought it to her chest so he could feel the persistent angry beat of her heart.

"Nightmare." Her mouth drew up into a sort of helpless grimace as he nodded with understanding.

Heather was far from ready to reenter the quaking world that had become her life in a mere 48 hours. Soon Dean, Cas, and herself would exist mainly in crisis mode until their familial world could be put back to rights; saying nothing of the complications her unintended union with Crowley would surely bring.

Crowley narrowed his concerned eyes as her heart again picked up a staccato rhythm. He was as unsure of himself in that moment as he had ever been in his entire existence. Something far away whispered that his disfigured soul was presently becoming the battle ground between the proverbial heart and mind. His hesitance alone unnerved him past the point of sarcasm for sarcasms' sake. Yet he couldn't deny that Heather simply wiped the devilish smirk right from his lips and swelled his chest with a deep breath he didn't know he'd been waiting to gulp.

_Pull it together man!_

Heather saw the instant some unknown change took hold of Crowley. She couldn't help that little voice urgently whispering that his straightening of shoulders and spine, the jutting out of his chin and set of his jaw, were all warning signs that the demon was about to strike. She should have been scared, but what could Crowley really do to her that could ever feel worse than the lifetime of pain she was to continue living through. Her life experience had made her uniquely qualified to know that there was nothing so bad in life that there wasn't something worse. Whatever happened to her, Kevin had stood and watched as Sam's body set to murdering him. At least if Crowley decided to rip her apart she had the comfort of knowing it wasn't the worst betrayal anyone had ever felt.

Crowley smiled. Heather's poker face wavered a bit as his fingertips found the slightly rounded shaped of her jawline.

"Better get back up to tweedle dumb and dumber. I'm thinking perhaps the sky has started to fall, and there should be at least one sane person conducting the runaway train."

Heather let herself be led forward to grasp the stained lapels of the suit jacket he'd put back on as his lips found the corner of her mouth.

"Or am I wrong about you dahling? Are you too cracked to stand up straight?"

She didn't dare pull back as Crowley stayed leaning into her, his mouth barely sweeping against hers as he spoke. She moved forward minutely and pressed her relaxed lips against his and just held on to the soothing warmth of him. Her fingers tightened around the fabric of his jacket, while his threaded into her hair. She knew what he was doing. It felt wrong to thank god for it, but her prayers of thanks went out anyway. This was what she needed now. Last night it had been a chest on which to rest her head and arms to hold her tight; now it was a swift kick in the ass.

When she pulled back from him, he made not even the slightest move to follow; proof to himself that he was in control once more. How long that control would hold out was anyone's guess.

She finally recognized Crowley's mask had slipped partially back in to place, and yet he had remained encouraging and affectionate. It would be something to worry on later.

"Thank you." Heather smiled against Crowley's lips, stole one more kiss, and pocketed the demon knife on her way upstairs.

XxXxX

The shower had been a fantastic decision on Heather's end. It revitalized her flagging motivation to reenter the wreck that Dean had made of the "library". She found the Winchester stuffing items into an army green duffle, his eyes determinedly on task. Her arm extended to set a mug of coffee within his reach as she sipped from her own muddy concoction of coffee and cappuccino mix. The _squeal_ and _clunk_ of the apparently unlocked bunker door faintly reached her hearing, but Dean kept to task, completely ignoring the detritus among which they both stood.

Heather parked her mug atop the room's center table as Cas, despite the angel-wide "clipped-wing" condition, seemed to materialize from nothing, his form startlingly insignificant compared to the doorway that loomed around him. Cas nodded a greeting in her direction while fixing his eyes to Dean, who had yet to notice or acknowledge the angels presence.

Dean turned slowly at the sound of his name. He looked at Cas like the angel been standing there for ages, ignoring that in the past year Cas' company had become less a staple of everyday existence, and more a treat to be savored and enjoyed for as long as possible. Even Heather had to admit that everything felt slightly less chaotic when Castiel was near.

"Cas. Ah look at you; all suited up and back in the game."

Heather almost startled at the gruffness of Dean's voice. His posture of indifference and sardonic dialogue did a hell of a job hiding his true feelings from Cas, but to her it was obvious the tougher than tough Dean Winchester had allowed himself to cry.

Cas naturally missed the patronizing sarcasm tucked inside Dean's words and began inspecting his own ensemble with more than a hint of self-doubt. Heather gave him a kind smile, trying to force comprehension in to the oblivious angel through sheer force of will.

"I um…I came as soon as you called." Cas' eyes flicked toward Heather and back again. "I was…"

Cas lost whatever he was going to say in the process of finally intuiting the two hunters' despondency, and thoroughly observing the disaster that was the room before him. Dean continued with loading a clip and slipping it into the pistol grip with a definitive _snick_.

"Dean. What happened? What's wrong?" Cas looked to Heather.

At this Dean finally stopped.

_Here we go._

The older Winchester used the table before him as a touchstone. When it seemed Dean was finally ready to settle in and pull back the vale, Heather had to tear her eyes away from the stairs once again. She needed to block out the yearning to disappear down into their shadows and not come back until everything returned to normal.

But wasn't this normal; what she held to with an iron grip? Normal was catastrophe, researching, hunting, fighting, killing, and repeat…wasn't that what she'd been so relieved to be able to keep when Dean had Liam Neeson-ed his way through the doors of that church.

Heather yanked her mind back to the moment and concentrated on the tale that Dean was spewing out in quick, jerky sentences. She held a shuddering breath and focused on the approaching hunt.


	4. equal and opposite reaction

Thank you for coming back joyous readers. Story rated M...chapter rated M...blah, blah... If any one is interested, I listened to a good deal of Muse while writing Crowley in this chapter. They have this sort of dark melodic sound going for them, and I felt like it fit Crowley surprisingly well. Anyway I hope you all enjoy. Questions, comments, instances of outrage...leave it in the review box. On with the show!

I do not own Supernatural...and I never will.

…equal and opposite reaction

Crowley had always been a man of many words; a quick witted, charismatic, fast talker. The King of the Crossroads title fit him better than his long preferred meat suit. But in the silence of Heather's absence, his mind again took up the broken loop of scattered focus, giving way to memories that sang from a place cemented under centuries of horror.

He could see it for what it was; a crack caused by the unfinished trial, the blood. The evolving companionship in which he'd let himself indulge, and ultimately become attached, etched that crack into a gaping fissure.

Situational awareness didn't make it any easier to deal with.

In a desperate attempt to quell his own needle sharp discomfort he began drawing on moments of his history when he had taken deep pleasure in another's pain. He felt his old friends, satisfaction and arousal, tingle their way through his limbs only to fade into the warm caress of sweet breath ghosting across his lips.

Maddening was the only word to come to mind as Crowley tried to shake Heather's phantom image from view, only to fail pathetically. Most previous inner conflict centered around whether to slice or tear, deal straight or deceive…never had one part of himself disagreed so wholly with the rest.

He shoved aside the annoying twinkle of humanity and went deeper. The more horrific the images he recalled, the more difficult it became not to sweat, the beginnings of panic spreading to his already stuttered breathing.

_Demons don't panic._

"But humans do."

He considered this for a moment before delving deep down, searching frantically for the veiled scars on his soul that reminded him what he had been twisted in to. They were still there.

Crowley was suddenly dragged under into the bloody confines of his memory.

_His limbs were stretched so that each breath plucked at the muscles and tendons in his hyperextended joints. Another scream gurgled to a halt in his throat. His eyes moved wildly under their lids as the demon in front of him, something so horrific to look on it sent his mind into a tornado of revulsion, pulled its clawed hand from his chest to lap at the blood and chew the skin and sinew dangling from its razor sharp nails. His eyes were shedding tears uncontrollably as he tried to heave a breath through his sliced wind pipe, into a chest that was gaping open for all of hell to see. _

_Fergus had lost count of how many times this very same scene had played out. He'd been torn apart in so many different ways for such a long time. Though he could never be sure how much time had actually passed, every session ended the same._

_Get off the rack if he threw someone else on._

_Every day he gave the same answer._

_But you tear at a soul long enough and eventually it loses any semblance of rationality; will never again fit back together as it once had. In the end Fergus MacLeod retreated into oblivion, offering Lilith a blank slate of horror and destruction. _

_Her admiration for his ability to endure had only gone so far, before giving way to the twisted glee she would extract from slowly molding him into something new and unique. Just as Lucifer had shown her the way, she would show this new pet so many wonderful things. He would learn to love the pain and torture, he would learn to crave the sensation of pliable flesh ripping open beneath his fingers, sinking his teeth into the human world. If he would just say yes she promised he wouldn't have to harm another soul…until he asked to. What was left of his tattered spirit had nodded frantically, and Crowley was born._

An idea tore him from the reminiscence with enough force to cement it in fact. It wasn't him, it was this place: the chains, the devils trap…more importantly, it was her. If he could just get away he could reclaim his precious thrown, along with his sanity.

He looked to the abandoned chair and shackles as a smirk twitched up the corner of his mouth. It was time he got the hell out of there.

XxXxX

Heather's movement was arrested when Cas placed gentle fingers against her wrist.

"Are you all right?"

She would have laughed if he hadn't used those stellar blue concerned eyes on her.

"Yeah. I'm ok. You know, not really but…I will be."

She watched Cas look to Dean's back as it sunk out of view down the stairs.

"He will be too." Heather held the angels' stare before his lips pulled into a slight frown.

"You're not angry with him?"

"I…"

Dean's voice bellowed at them from below, saving Heather the difficulty of explaining that she had no idea if she was angry with Dean. There were too many crises vying for her attention simultaneously, and she'd had little time to truly process. She had put her mind in hunt mode specifically so she could muffle the rest of the world. Saving Sam was the priority; the rest would have to come later.

Compartmentalize or die.

Dean was waiting, facing the closed door of Crowley's room. His right arm was tense against his hip, clutching something in his fist. Heather looked at it, wondering if the obscured item had anything to do with Dean's super-secret plan to convince Crowley to help them.

_Sammy was dying._ _What was I supposed to do?_

_Cum for me dahling._

Heather snapped at herself with a clipped growl that neither of her comrades seemed to notice, as it was covered by the _squeak_ of the opening door.

Heather was by no means ignorant of the lengths to which the Winchester's would go to save each other. Dean would slice Crowley into a new monster if he thought it would help Sam.

But which Crowley would she see when they walked through the door?

She may have been acting admirably by momentarily setting aside her undefinable feelings for him, but that didn't mean they weren't swelling up with a vengeance as the sharp tang of sex, sweat, and blood wafted past her face before she even stepped into the room.

Crowley confronted them with an easy air of indifference. Heather cringed at the shackles that were back in place around his neck and wrists, the chains having been loosened from the torturously short length that Kevin had engineered. It was a tiny cringe, but a cringe all the same.

One that Crowley caught instantly. His muscles were suddenly numb with the tension of keeping up the casualness. He couldn't help lament that she would be the end of him one way or another. But he kept up straight; his fingers settled comfortably atop the table and his eyes roamed over the two hunters and their angel.

"Hello boys." Crowley sent a wink toward Heather in a lewd show of acknowledgement.

The demon in front of her showed no signs that he had ever been anything other than what he was; a smarmy dick with an iron will to survive. Her unconsciously swollen heart deflated a bit, especially as her eyes moved to stare at the mattress shoved toward the corner of the room; as far from the table and chair as possible.

Any other day this would have been the best part of the hunt for her. She excelled at taking point on an interrogation; a puzzle solver (with good aim), not a hammer. Still, this would have been her forte had circumstances been different, and holy shit was she darkly glad things were what they were.

"Here's the deal…" Heather's forehead drew down in confusion when Dean lifted a blood filled syringe into view as he spoke, "you're gonna tell us how to hack an angel and I'm gonna give you some of the good stuff; human blood," Dean stiffly slapped at his elbow, "fresh from the tap. Word is you're jonesin' for it."

Crowley brushed away the bribe as he kept his eyes tightly trained on Dean. His glare fell to mock pondering as Cas interceded, but he would not allow his eyes to land on Heather. Seeing the perfect outline of her in his periphery was more than enough to start a tiny scratching at his resolve.

She had expected this. She wasn't some starry eyed preteen…she was a tried and true 30 year old female hunter. One that held her ground and didn't let anything knock her off course. And while she loathed to see him acting so coldly superior, she was not surprised.

"…get Kevin down here. His tiny fists can really work wonders…"

"Kevin's dead." Heather's voice cut through the air.

Crowley froze for an instant, his eyes flicking to see Heather almost studying him.

He was prepared to fight the softness of her presence, and watch her flinch from him for it; he hadn't been prepared for such an unsettling show of pretention. Her stare touched his very core, like the demon with its hand buried in his chest cavity. The fact that it nearly broke him was covered spectacularly by the blanket of stubbornness he then clung to.

Crowley remained smooth and nonchalant. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

She couldn't' look at him without seeing his other faces: lustful, gentle, needy, blissful, playful. She'd been too involved before, but now she was picking him apart in the way one examines a specimen. She couldn't help but think that Crowley wasn't as complicated as he might seem.

Heather took an involuntary step toward Cas, ready to snatch the angel back if the situation escalated. She knew Dean caught the movement from the corner of his eye, but he made no show of acknowledging it.

It couldn't have been clearer to Heather that Crowley was baiting them. His devious mind had put some things together and realized they were in crisis mode. Hell be damned if he wasn't going to take advantage of that.

"I told him this was gonna happen. I was the only person who tried to warn him. I told him to run."

Dean lunged at that bait without a second thought. "From what?"

"You. How many times am I gonna have to say this? People, in your general vicinity don't have much in the way of a lifespan."

"Crowley…" Heather almost growled in warning as she moved from behind Cas.

Crowley's responding sigh held a tightness that Heather clearly picked up on as she took a step forward to stand next to the angel. She hadn't wanted to interject, but it was clear that Crowley wasn't going to let them control the conversation. She knew her very presence was nipping at his self-control, so she used her body in an attempt to distract him from a game she didn't know they'd been playing.

"You. You're still here. Guess you're too stupid to run too. Oh well. As they say, the more the merrier. Now…"

Heather startled at the look she saw in his eyes as he spoke. His words mocked but his eyes pleaded.

_Run!_

"I can't teach you to crack open an angel; it's more art than science, but I can do it for you. All I ask in return, is a little field trip. Dying for some fresh air. Chains on, naturally."

Dean turned with a resounding denial. Heather walked away from Crowley's words, reaching Dean as his shoulders slumped. Cas was soon standing with them in a small circle, Heather's back to Crowley. She couldn't consider him now. He was making a show of offering himself up as a tool, no doubt in eventual exchange for his freedom.

"With the chains on he can't do anything." Dean insisted weakly.

Heather spoke without really meaning to. "It's Crowley, he can always to something."

Dean looked mildly surprised at her swift disagreement.

"You don't count princess. You're just a stand in til next season…probably be dead soon. We need a tie breaker. Go get Moose, Squirrel."

Crowley knew immediately that he had them. If Sam was in danger Dean would deal away his soul to save him…again.

"Are you done?"

"Depends. Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah."

"Excellent. When do we leave?"

"Soon as I can scratch up a ride." Dean looked unsure and overwhelmed. Heather could only hope he was prepared for what they were about to do.

XxXxX

Heather stomped out a cigarette butt in the parking lot of the Waldorf Financial building. It had already been a long drive and she needed the break.

From the passenger seat of the car, she would glance up in the rear view mirror to see Crowley sat behind Dean. Not once had she caught him looking, but from the way his eyes studiously avoided the mirror it wasn't hard to figure out that he could feel her watching. So, as a means of distracting himself on the car ride, Crowley had taken to insulting and flirting with Cas in equal measure. Cas had not been amused, and after about 50 miles, neither were Dean and Heather.

As she looked up from the scattered bits of tobacco under her foot, Dean was steadily moving toward her across the black top. Heather leaned back against the passenger door, crossing one ankle over the other, and stuffed her hands in her pockets. Dean mirrored her posture before crossing his arms, looking for all the world like he longed to be holding a beer in his hand while staring out over Singers Scrap Yard.

She knew how hard this kind of thing was for him. He wasn't a talker; so unlike his younger brother. But she knew how to handle a man like Dean, because her father had been carved from the same sort of stone.

"How's it goin' in there?" she asked.

"Well, Crowley's in. Cas said the room's warded, so it's just sit tight."

"Right."

A breeze picked up, blowing away the discarded cigarette filter.

Dean cleared his throat. "Look Heather, about Crowley…"

"What about Crowley?"

Dean's face pinched into a look of chastisement. "Hey, I'm just tryin' to look out for you ok?"

A scoff rocketed out of Heather's mouth. "Right. Like you were looking out for Sam?"

It wasn't an instant before she wished she could take the words back as Dean's entire body seemed to clench tight enough to snap.

"I didn't mean that." Heather whispered, only for the wind to carry the words away.

"No. You're right. So is Crowley if I'm being straight."

She watched Dean stare off into the distance while her words replayed in her head, sounding more accusatory with every repetition. It wasn't the heavy silence that hung between them that gnawed at her; it was that she was filling it with the wrong words when she so desperately wanted Dean to understand.

"I didn't plan it." The acknowledgment drew Dean's attention.

As the words were preparing to leave her throat she grasped the truth of them, her need to make Dean understand creating its own outward flowing sense of realization.

"Receiving a subdural hematoma curtesy of Abadon, being held hostage by an oddly well-disciplined army of Barbie Dolls, and that time in Tempe that I won't actually mention, are also on the list of things not planned." She could feel Dean watching her from the corner of his eye. "Shit just happens, whether we plan on it or not, but that's what we're trained for, right?"

Dean hummed in careful agreement.

"So just because the road suddenly veers off to the left doesn't mean you can't make the turn."

"Yes thank you for the driving metaphor, I get it Obi Wan."

Heather smiled at Dean's secret undying devotion to the Jedi master.

"Dean, you always look out, for everyone you care about. And honestly I'm sure we lucky few give you more shit about it than you deserve, but that doesn't mean that we aren't eternally grateful for it. But right now you need to focus on getting Sam back; both of us need to focus."

Dean turned his head and smiled down at Heather. "You're good at that."

"What?"

"Talkin' circles around people. Never had a real appreciation for it until you started using it on me."

"I'm not trying to…"

"No, Heather, I get it. I do. And you're right. I should be focused on finding Sam, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook. We _will_ talk about this."

"Oh you mean you'll lecture and I'll sit quietly and nod." Heather leaned her shoulder into Dean as he huffed with mock outrage.

"Thank you." Heather closed her eyes and relaxed the tiniest bit for the first time in the last 24 hours.

"For what?"

"For looking out. Thank you."

Dean remained in quiet thought for a few seconds. "You were held hostage by an army of action figures?"

"Barbies Dean, Barbies. Barbies with missing heads, and chewed hands, some had no hair, others their hair was melted to their head in these singed, sticky clumps…it was horrific, like a George Romero puppet theater without the strings."

Heather shuddered against him, and for the first time in a long time Dean was laughing so hard tears were streaming down his face. A few people in the parking lot had turned to stare, still Heather couldn't help but follow him into the all-consuming laughter they both so sorely needed.

Having barely caught his breath, Dean looked up before nudging Heather to attention, as she finished wiping tears from her face. Cas and Crowley had exited the building and were a few yards away from the car.

Crowley recognized the prickling of white hot rage when he squinted across the parking lot to see Heather and that _caveman_ folded over one another while in the throes of what he thought could have been joyous laughter…if he ever cared to know what joyous laughter looked like…which he didn't. As they settled in their assigned seats, Crowley broke his resolve and trained his gaze in the rear view mirror to catch Heather's eyes as she again glanced up to look at him. In the second it took for her to watch his eyes flash red, Dean was already putting the car in gear and Heather had taken to staring out the window, far away from the rear view mirror.

Crowley almost smiled.

By the time they were pulling from the parking lot, the angel and demon had already resumed their bickering.

***Author's Note*** An earlier version of this chapter contained a mix up as to which car Dean is driving at the moment. This mistake has been corrected.


	5. On again, off again

Thanks for joining the party folks. I know what you're all thinking…is she ever going to get out of 9.10 "Road Trip"…and yes, yes I will. Like I said, slow build. If you're not enjoying that aspect I am sorry. I can say that we will soon be moving off into uncharted territory i.e. where the hell was Crowley, and what was he doing instead of looking for the blade…and how in the world did the blood addiction get so bad and where does Heather fit in to any of this and…phew, sorry. This story is planned out but not fully written, so, if you have any suggestions, questions, comments, anything, leave it in the review box because you never know what might strike inspiration in an author. Anyway, story M, chapter M…you know the drill. Thank you for reading.

Also, would anyone be interested in a sort of stand alone Destiel piece that could count as a deleted scene from this story?

I do not own Supernatural…and I never will.

On Again, Off Again

Dazed wonder was the only way to possibly interpret Heather's expression when Dean had instructed her to hang back and babysit Crowley. He hadn't waited for any form of protest before leading Cas off to collect their quarry.

She wasn't nervous in an awkward sense, but rather that she wasn't confident in her ability to refrain from climbing over the seat and…

_Red eyes. Angry red eyes. Remember!_

The earlier shift from easy confidence to possessive anger had been quick and short lived, but Crowley had felt more in control of his mind after. He'd wanted to shock Heather with fear, as his unexpectedly provoked anger had shocked him. Continuing Castiel's torment had been a pleasant enough occupation, especially since he felt like he'd earned a tick in the old win column with his fearsome display of…

_Jealousy?_

A rapid shudder rocked Crowley forward, his groan of discomfort pulling Heather from her private musings to turn back with a clear look of concern marring her usual serenely observant features. She suddenly whirled back around to shove out of the unexpectedly open passenger door. The decisiveness of her movement distracted Crowley from his thoughts long enough to realize she had already rounded the car, seemingly intent on plucking him out of the back seat.

Her hand reached behind the forward-shifted driver seat to wrap around the elbow Crowley didn't exactly recall extending. He ambled out of the back seat with minimal grace, and once standing in the fresh night air, shook out the wrinkles of the long ride.

Before Crowley registered the creaking of the Impala's door slamming shut behind him, Heather was spinning him by the shoulder to halt his momentum with the magnetism of her lips finding his.

It was, to say the least, the last thing he had expected.

He reeled against her until she was pinned between his body and the Impala. Heather's hands disappeared from the lapels of his jacket to hook determined fingers into the belt loops of his slacks. It wasn't a sexually fueled action; she wasn't grinding against him. Rather, she had contorted herself around him in such a way that he risked physically injuring her, were he to flex his stifled demon strength to make a getaway.

Crowley mused, keenly participating, that she needn't have bothered. Given that his shackles restricted the movement of his arms, he was tireless in his will to remain as connected to Heather as possible. His fingers had tangled in her hair, and would not suffer separation from the wavy brown strands for anything.

After hours spent trapped in a car, striving to remain controlled, he was more than grateful to accept the single-mindedness that anchored him to her mouth. The tip of his tongue followed the seam of her lips from one corner, and back, before she seized his bottom lip and sucked with vexingly soft pressure. The instant her fingers found skin under the hastily tucked in hem of his shirt, neither of them could contain a moan at the tingling warmth inspired by her caress.

One second his tongue was mapping out the curve of her bottom lip, and the next he was staring straight back into glistening, dark blue eyes.

Heather had retreated only enough to break the frenzied rhythm of the kiss. She didn't dare breathe, not wanting her waiting sigh of satisfaction to rush away the moment of mutual ensnarement.

Crowley couldn't help that his tongue peeked out to lick his lips as a hum worked its way through his chest. He felt fantastically unburdened as the seconds vanished while he held on to her stare. He could see it clearly in her eyes; she was entranced, not by fear, but by affection. She wasn't doing these things to get something from him. If anything she had been more a hindrance than a help. She wasn't working an angle, digging for information, or trying to climb the ladder of power.

Even after he gave her his best _classic Crowley_, Heather had overlooked the King of Hell routine and still wanted to pull him out of a car on a deserted street and kiss him speechless, for no other reason than pure desire to do so. The mere idea snatched away any meaningful focus that had not been obliterated by their kiss.

"You know," Crowley started breathless and more than a little dizzy with euphoria, "I could hurt you." He didn't know why he was talking, and desperately wished, for once, that he would just shut the hell up.

"You won't."

"I should."

"I know." Heather huffed sadly. By all rights Crowley should have been kicking, punching, and biting his way to freedom.

"Maybe I'm worried you could kill me with that witchy business you've been meddling in." His eyes trailed over her face like an unending caress.

"You're right. I could hurt you."

Crowley stopped his eyes searching to fix entirely on the tiny flecks of gray in her otherwise blue irises. "You won't."

"I should." Heather's breath rushed from her lungs only to catch in her throat.

"I know." Crowley kissed her then with all the reverence his mangled soul had left.

Heather held her eyes shut as Crowley kissed his way past the corner of her mouth to catch a tear before it could fall from her chin. She internally cringed at crying for the second time in as many days…and more ineptly, crying while being physical with Crowley. Though he once again shattered her expectations when he stayed silent but to kiss away the tears on her other cheek.

She finally gathered the courage to open her eyes and found a tender smile easily shaping Crowley's features. As another tear rounded off her lashes he reached up to catch it with a swipe of his thumb.

"We've got to stop meeting like this love…" he purposefully jangled his chains, "something about it seems to set you to tears."

His mocking was gentle enough to draw a shy smile to Heather's lips; and Heather didn't do shy. But then, where Crowley was concerned, she didn't seem to know what she "did" or "didn't" _do_ any longer.

She caught his hand and pressed her lips to the pad of his thumb, holding the kiss until the desire to nibble became too awesome to ignore. She relinquished hold of his hand, which only moved so far as to settle on the side of her neck.

In the silence that draped over them, they seemed to finally appreciate that things were more complicated than either of them had been able to foresee. In that moment they would have left their lives behind if it meant permission to continue holding on to each other. That alone was more dangerous to either one of them than they could yet comprehend.

Heather's attention was slowly drawn to the loud, deep toned grunt coming from the alley down which Dean and Cas had not long since disappeared. The hunter and the demon reluctantly divided only a few seconds before all three boys exited the mouth of the alley and started up the sidewalk toward the cars.

Dean lagged behind Cas who shuffled forward, half dragging a clearly unconscious body belonging to Sam Winchester. Heather's relieved sigh broke open a bit of hope in the otherwise dimly optimistic situation.

With Crowley's sulfuric aftertaste lingering on her lips, she rushed toward the ungainly trio, intent to help Dean as he tried to shake the limp out of his leg.

"I'm fine." He coughed out. "You three take Cas' pimp ride and follow me."

"But Dean…"

"Heather, we gotta move. We have no idea how long that dick will stay down, even with a sucker punch from Cas."

"It wasn't a sucker pu…"

Dean held up his hands and raised his voice over the din of Cas and Heather's concern.

"Cas, put Sam in the back seat of the Impala. And get the cuffs from the trunk."

"Dean, if he wakes up while you're driving…"

Dean gave Heather such a look, the words died coldly on the tip of her tongue.

"Have Cas stay in the back seat with Crowley while you drive." A heavy sigh preceded a softening of Dean's exasperation. "I don't think he'd hurt you, but I've been wrong before."

Heather restrained an ironic eye roll and nodded her silent agreement as Cas called out his readiness to leave. Dean reciprocated with a stiff nod before marching toward the Impala's driver door, his previous limp an errant afterthought.

XxXxX

The screaming had scaled and surmounted her wall of patience nigh on an hour before, but Heather couldn't make her feet carry her body out of ear shot. Even Dean had taken a break, however brief, right before Cas had been forced to entertain them with an overly-agitated bible lesson about the damning of human kind. Heather shared the rage in Cas' eyes as he shook Sam's unconscious body. Cas deserved to vent just as much as anyone, and knowing Dean would never let Cas harm Sam, she'd stood back and raised nary a concern.

_Gadreel._

She hated the name; thought it sounded like the incomprehensible slang the younger generation loved creating. Her distaste for the name about summed up her general impression of him. Despite Dean's claim that the angel had saved his and Sam's lives more than once, she couldn't help but feel that Kevin's murderer wasn't worth her mercy.

Hunting with loved ones always added a complication that Heather's practiced aloofness rebelled against at every turn. She felt everything, but revealed very little. The vessel strapped to a chair, the angel feigning indifference, had been the first time she'd glimpsed the intruder inside of Sam. The thought of the murderous seraph violating her kind and heroic friend trampled through what remained of her hunter mindset that night.

Dean became more tense as time dragged on. Heather couldn't blame him, as she'd been fighting back a tsunami of righteous anger while Crowley continued working to unravel a path to Sam. The anger at least had provided a decent distraction from Crowley's surely imminent escape. Ripping him out of the car to kiss him senseless had exposed, in equal measure, her desire to keep him close, and the imperative that they be nowhere near one another.

She couldn't think straight around him. Where she was usually slipping information into neat little slots as she observed the world, when Crowley was near, none of the slots made sense any longer. Worse was that new slots started to appear; ones Heather was not keen on acknowledging.

He should go, and she should be happy to see him leave, if only to regain her ability to think; but nothing about the moment in which they all currently existed lent itself to contentment. In the darkest and most abandoned places in her mind, something begged for the nightmare to continue; for Gadreel to hold onto Sam's body as long as he could so that Crowley…

That consideration alone deserved a special badge of shame.

Crowley's measured step backward drew Heather's attention to a suddenly conscious Gadreel.

"It won't work…"

He was right and she knew it, had known it. If she was finally being honest, she'd known it the moment Dean, Cas, and herself had concocted the ploy. One way or the other it was bound to fail; and finally knowing the identity of the angel, it was clear that his time in Heaven's Super Max had turned him into a being of endless patience and fortitude.

The whole time she had ignored a tiny clicking in the back of her mind trying to tell her there was another solution they just hadn't yet considered. The light had finally clicked on, and Heather took a turning step away from the conversation, not wanting to be the one to offer the suggestion.

Dean barked at the offending angel before turning to Cas. "Alright plan B. Cas, you gotta possess him."

"What?"

"Do it now! Get in there. Tell Sam what's goin' on and help him kick that lyin' son of a bitch out!"

As loathed as she was to hear them still a step from the obvious ending, she was too anxious not to turn back and find Crowley among the testosterone maelstrom.

He was entirely enveloped in the conversation, eyes twinkling with anticipation. She noted his hand as it twitched at his side, just waiting for the opportunity to rise into the air. When that moment finally arrived she could see the glisten of perspiration on his palm and suddenly found herself unable to stop wiping her hands on her jeans.

Cas and Dean spoke over one another in complete disagreement. It took another few seconds for the four of them to turn, synchronized, to look in Heather's direction. Any other time the display would have been comical enough to bring a smile to her face.

She looked at all of them without really seeing their faces. At the moment they represented an amalgamation of reasons she should have walked out of the bunker the same night she'd set foot inside.

Sam was _Dean's_ brother, not hers; it wasn't her responsibility, _her_ call to make. If she sided with Cas they would find another way; the Winchesters always did. And yet, Heather made eye contact with Dean and nodded, unable to find the words. They sat Crowley down, availed him of the spell-etched shackles, and watched, with mutual apprehension, as a swirling mist of the deepest red flowed elegantly through the air.


	6. Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Welcome back! Enjoy!

Really, no one has anything to say about a Destiel piece…well that's…hmm…

I do not own Supernatural…and I never will.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

_Heather halted, watching the darkness curl around her friends as they continued on without notice of her absence. She was panting, every nerve in her body sparking off the combustible adrenaline pumping through her veins. Pushed by a fatalistic decision, she was whirling around to hasten back toward desire. _

_Crowley's attention abandoned the flicker of headlights in the windows for the scuff of sneakers on concrete, turning at exactly the right moment for Heather's arms to enclose covetously around his neck._

_Their lips bruised together, teeth catching tongues and lips, while a delicate blush burned to life at the friction of his beard against her skin. It was not a gentle kiss. It was one of longing and desperation. It was Heather trying her damnedest to crawl inside the comfort of his mouth slanting against hers in a flawless dance of mutual destruction. The opening of a door never registered as she urgently whispered into the kiss that she didn't _want_ to leave, _couldn't_ leave…would _never_ leave; all the while he moaned a plea for her to stay. _

_Suddenly Crowley was ripped from her grasp, the viciousness of an accompanying laugh ringing through her bones. Heather instantly recognized the woman from the church all those months before. Abbadon sauntered patiently toward her, frozen but for a fitfully thudding heart. A blood red, exquisitely sculptured fingernail grazed down the side of Heather's cheek. She wanted to shiver and flinch, but could do nothing except watch._

_Crowley was held irrationally tight by Abbadon's minions. And though he struggled violently toward Heather, it seemed he was unable to break from their herculean grasp. His shouts of anger broke against her hearing like waves against a rocky shore._

_Abbadon circled Heather's static form and turned slowly to consider the King. She watched the Knight of Hell strut toward Crowley, who had not given up his forlorn tugging against the grip of the goons. Abbadon stopped in front of him and turned her head, a wicked grin reflecting pristinely in Heather's tearful eyes. With a motion that appeared too gentle to be violent, an angel blade was jutting, bloody and jeering, from Crowley's chest, a deceivingly feminine hand falling gracefully from the hilt._

Heather's agonized scream followed her into the waking world. It took endless seconds for her vision of Crowley, harpooned by an angel blade, to fade and become her Spartan style room in the Men of Letters bunker.

The cheap clock on her bedside table read 8:16 am. She sneered at the radioactive glow of the numbers and scraped the sleep from her face with a heavy hand. Still tightly tangled in her bed sheet, Heather considered the nightmare from which she had hurtled toward wakefulness.

A twisted replica of a daydream she had given her mind over to while they had put distance between their delicate hides, and Abbadon's coincidental arrival.

In their rush to escape, not one of the boys noticed that Heather really _had_ hesitated and turned back. She had been rooted to the spot watching from behind as Crowley had shaken himself out, straightened up, and prepared for battle. She could perfectly imagine his confident smirk and the twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

She had known if she stayed the smirk would falter, his eyes would fill with familiar unnamable flashes of emotion…and Abbadon would eat them alive. The _squeak_ of an opening door had assaulted the silence as she had backed around a corner. A deep breath later and she took to chasing the freedom her friends had already attained.

It was bittersweet. Sam regaining control of his body swelled her heart with unfathomable relief, but walking away from Crowley had weighed it down considerably. In short, her chest had become a melee of sharp stabs, deep aches, and fluttering unease; Dean's departure claiming a good portion of the unease.

It wasn't the first time Dean had flown solo, Heather knew. A few times over the years Dean had shown up out of the blue, sans Sam, and they would go on a hunt, or just kick back and enjoy the quiet. Once Heather had even cajoled Dean in to going to a rare Garth Brooks concert event. That had been one hell of a night, complete with cowboy hats, mechanical bull rides, spontaneous bouts of line dancing, and whiskey. _Lots_ of whiskey.

Heather smiled into the sparseness of her room, still recalling Dean tipping his cowboy hat to a passing blond and losing his balance on the bar stool for his trouble.

It had been Dean's decision to leave, but she couldn't tell which she lamented more: letting him go, or not going with him. Just one more choice made to add to the pile.

Heather shook out the remaining fog of nightmare and memory and stretched in the direction of the kitchen for a caffeine IV, a heavy silence echoing in her wake.

XxXxX

"Morning guys." Heather blew across the top of her second cup of coffee cappuccino before taking an experimental sip and finding it deliciously drinkable.

Cas barely turned, but managed a grunt in acknowledgement. Sam however, laughed. Heather was stunned by the unexpected smile gracing his well-rested features. She must have looked quite shocked as Sam's smile bent from entertained to reassuring. Choosing not to question the encouraging display, Heather returned a small smile of her own.

Sam leaned across the table reaching for a small bag of groceries. "Cas was just explaining to me the molecular conundrum that is pb&j."

Heather chuckled into her half empty mug, not having to understand the context to imagine what the conversation must have been like.

Cas grimaced and stood. "We need to continue you're healing. We're almost done."

It was true that Sam looked significantly better than Heather had expected. They had left Dean and driven through the day, arriving at the bunker not long ahead of dark the night before. The trip was made that much longer by frequent stops where Cas would heal Sam up a bit and insist that the recuperating hunter take some time to stretch his legs and get some fresh air. She couldn't argue against the world of good it had done Sam.

Heather drained her mug as Cas' fingers touched Sam's forehead. She'd been about to return to the kitchen for the last of her concoction when Cas suddenly appeared bothered before he hesitantly broke the contact.

"What?"

"…nothing."

Sam looked to Heather with exasperation as he slapped Cas' arm away. Heather could only let her shoulders drop from their previous "nobody died this morning so that's good" posture of pride. She couldn't even find it in her love of dark humor to chuckle at Cas' attempt to defend himself against Sam's accusation of being a terrible liar.

The angel finally relented and looked to both hunters as though trying to divine what sort of impact his information would have.

"I noticed something it's um…it's resonating inside you."

The humans shared a look of incredulity.

"…something angelic." Cas finished hesitantly.

"Wow, ok. What the hell does that mean?" Heather finally abandoned her coffee mug, not noticing that she'd set it on an open book.

Cas paused in careful concentration before adding a bit of command to his voice while training his eyes to Sam. "Maybe we should call Dean."

Heather clenched at the brash insistence in Cas' voice. Sam at least pretended to consider the suggestion before giving it a terse denial. Heather looked down at her hands gripping the edge of the table, her fingers white from lack of blood. She drew in a stabilizing breath before preparing to dive into the happy distraction of research.

Time dragged while the trio kept their eyes in constant movement over the plethora of Men of Letters files and stacks of texts from which to choose. Heather had volunteered to run for lunch, as Dean usually did the cooking. The empty Chinese food containers sat forgotten amidst the stack of research material they had already been through.

Heather read the same sentence for the 10th time before setting the book aside and pinching the bridge of her nose. Cas was a few tables away scanning through some files. She looked to Sam, who studiously examined a Latin text on immortal beings.

"Hey Sam?" Heather started softly, trying to avoid drawing the angels' attention.

Sam hummed without looking up.

There was no use beating around the bush. "Why would Crowley want human blood?" It had been bothering her since the moment Dean lifted the syringe into the air.

Sam looked up with eyebrows raised. "Who told you that?"

"Nobody. But Dean tried to use a syringe full of it to deal with Crowley in exchange for information about cracking Gadreel."

Sam tensed at the mention of the angel that had not long since taken over his body and used it to kill Kevin. His eyes circled quickly around the room before settling back on Heather.

"Yeah, I saw him injecting himself with a syringe full of…of Kevin's blood."

Heather's breath stopped in her chest as her mind raced to catch up to what Sam had just said. She asked when he'd seen it, but she realized she already knew the answer.

"The day after you left for that poltergeist job. He must have palmed it when he made the call to Abbadon." The spite in Sam's voice was clear, but a tight smile worked its way to his lips regardless. "At least he was affected by it, the ritual I mean. Even if I didn't get to finish it."

Heather mirrored the distracted hum that Sam had given her at the beginning of the conversation.

"Actually," Sam cleared his throat and squirmed in his chair, the book on his lap completely forgotten, "there was something I wanted to mention, regarding Crowley."

Heather looked up to see Sam's "serious concern" face. Her breath slowed despite the panic that was faintly bubbling to the surface, but she schooled her features and prompted him to continue with a clipped nod.

"I don't know if you've ever been possessed…"

Heather shook her head when Sam let the sentence hang.

"Well you get impressions, sometimes thoughts or feelings, from the…_thing_…possessing you. It's like an equal exchange of information that neither party can stop. So…um, sometimes the impressions are a little more…well…"

"Sam just spit it out." Heather had been aiming for amused nonchalance, but feared she fell laughably short.

"I kinda saw these visions of you and Crowley having sex." Sam rushed the sentence to get out the cringe he'd been holding back.

Heather froze wide eyed and dry mouthed. Sam mistook her deer in headlights posture as shock at the implication of having sex with a _demon_, so he pressed on quietly, leaning forward to lend her strength with his body language.

"It seemed like they were _dreams_, you know. And I just thought that you should know. Especially with his whole stolen blood routine, he could be messed up, I mean more messed up than usual. If he became fixated on you in some way…"

Heather swallowed down the lump in her throat formed by the words of truth that wanted to spew forward without a care of their impact.

"…it could be something we have to watch out for in the future. Because I mean those dreams…" Sam was forced to stop by the brightness of the blush rushing over her face and neck. "Hey," Sam used his "wounded animal" voice, "you have nothing to be embarrassed about. It was just a dream, _his_ dream, not yours ok. And besides, he's gone now, so we don't have to worry about him being in striking distance."

Heather forced a tight smile on her face, squinting her eyes in pantomime of actual relief. "Yeah I mean you're right, he's not our problem anymore." It wasn't a lie at least.

Cas suddenly called for their attention as he indicated toward the book he'd been reading. "I found, well, something..."

XxXxX

Heather tried to sleep that night having decided that she'd heard more than enough of Sam's screams to last her three lifetimes.

XxXxX

_"__After I kill Abbadon, you're next!"_

_"__You don't mean that. We're havin' too much fun. Listen up, we're gonna need all the help we can get against Abbadon."_

_Dean turned around with a wicked grimace carved onto his face. "Oh you'd like that wouldn't you. You listen to me you slimey dick," Dean's finger pointed threateningly at Crowley's chest, "you won't ever get close enough to her again to even say her name if I have anything to say about it! You hear me?"_

_Crowley wanted to snarl at the protectiveness Dean had shown, but instead bit his tongue and rolled his eyes._

_Dean walked on with a resounding, "Just find the damn blade."_

Crowley rubbed at his jaw and glared into his scotch like it had insulted him. He was thirsty, but not for Craig. His mind didn't drift; it raced toward recreating Heather's taste. Unfortunately he found imagination sorely lacked compared to the real thing. That's when he felt an odd sensation, like being tugged at by an invisible string.

"Oh shi…"

The Marquis Waterford crystal tumbler Crowley had been considering thumped to the carpet, the 50 year aged amber liquid soaking into a $3,000 Ardabil Persian rug, and Crowley was no longer there to glower at the expensive mishap.

Instead he was blinking into a room that looked to have been used as a torture chamber. Only, pieces of bodies, and other unnamable bits, were scattered and stacked atop a coffee table, a few chairs, a small couch…the same couch he and Dean had occupied earlier in the day when they'd stumbled upon…

"Well, you're rather prompt."

Crowley didn't need to turn around to identify the owner of the voice.

"I would offer you a seat but, well…" The shrug in Cain's voice was obvious.

"Neat little trick." Crowley turned, stone faced, to stare back at the father of murder.

Cain smiled. "I know. I have a lot of neat little tricks, as you well know. So I have to wonder, why tell the boy nothing? Why bring him here, so elegantly oblivious, knowing that he would bulldoze his way through the conversation?"

Cain didn't seem to actually require an answer as he continued. "Not an ounce of finesse in that boy. A shame. Then, I suppose something like finesse can be taught; his thirst for blood well, that's something else entirely. But, you knew that too."

Cain was covered head to toe in a colorful array of gore. His hands at least had been wiped mostly clean, but it appeared that his slacks had been the towel of convenience. Crowley could speculate on the true topic of conversation, but either he was getting slow, or Cain was just slow in getting to the point. No matter, he was nearing the end of his patience.

"We told you…"

"Yes yes, the spell was for the blade. But you knew the blade would be useless without the mark. You played him." Cain's tone wasn't accusatory, but that didn't stop Crowley from narrowing his eyes.

"Yes. I played him. Hi, I'm Crowley. You've not heard of me?"

Cain's face suddenly took on a wistful quality, as if he was recalling something he'd not thought on in ages.

"I was like you once."

Crowley waited, assuming there would be more, but Cain seemed to have fallen into the void of memory where words were not necessary.

"Right well, good chat."

"Fighting against the truth even though it's a snarling unmanageable beast chomping at your throat. Trying so hard to remember that your soul is supposed to be too shredded to crave anything but the pull of darkness." Cain looked down at his hands, giving Crowley the chance to rearrange his features from the look of comprehension that had settled on his face.

He opened his mouth to throw out a quip, or a flirtation, anything to distract from the strange atmosphere that had settled between the two demons. But the words wouldn't come and Cain simply nodded his head and smiled wryly. Crowley allowed himself to relax the tiniest bit, assuming Cain would have already killed him if that had been the intention.

Crowley followed Cain's eyes to the mantle where a cracked glass panel protected a picture of Cain's dead wife from the blood spatters that had touched every surface of the room.

"When I first met her," Cain nodded toward the picture that Crowley had turned to consider, "I was so in love with myself that I couldn't see how much more powerful her love could be. I reminded myself that I was a demon and that I couldn't love because I had willingly given my soul over to eternal damnation; that I was too twisted and broken to ever feel something equivalent to human love. And I was right. Had I continued to deny myself the one thing in existence that I ever really wanted, I would never have become capable of returning even a small portion of the love Colette had given me. She healed parts of me that I had thought lost to brutality and blood lust; parts I hadn't realized even hurt until she had come along."

Crowley had been so lost in his memories of Heather, playing in his mind like a scattering of moments over a lifetime, that he didn't notice Cain had made his way to the framed picture and was holding it in his sticky red hands.

"I wasted so much time denying myself, and in the end I lost her much too early." Cain slowly looked up from the picture and found Crowley's far off gaze.

"That boy, he'll kill you when he's done with you."

Crowley nodded.

"It takes a great amount of strength and courage to admit to wanting something you shouldn't want. But then, from what I've heard, you don't concern yourself with things like strength and courage."

Cain turned and walked toward the stairs, disappearing up until Crowley was abandoned in the horror show of a living room.

He wanted to hit something, rip into someone until their screaming drown out the echoes of Cain's words in his head. He came back to himself, shaking away the twitching of his fist, and swallowed thickly at the carnage Cain had delivered upon Abbadon's minions. Crowley blinked against the thought that a human woman had ever loved the man that had painted the room red with the demon blood. But then, he could never have imagined seeing in anyone's eyes what he had seen in Heather's on more than one occasion.

Crowley looked up as door opened and closed on the floor above. Cain had called him there not just to tell him that he was a fool for walking away from the possibility of love, but to show Crowley what became of a demon who lost the love to which he had given in. Cain was a cautionary tale in every sense of the phrase; Crowley knew it, all of hell knew it…and apparently Cain knew it too.


	7. Daydream Believers

Welcome back. I'm glad everyone liked the last chapter. I hope this one meets expectations as well. This chapter is rated M. There is a bit of Italian in it and I used a translation app, so I greatly apologize if I have butchered the Italian language. Translations are at the bottom. Reviews are inspiration! Enjoy!

I do not own Supernatural…and I never will.

Daydream Believers

Heather was cornered in the kitchen.

She'd been quietly moving about the bunker for the past three days, hoping to stay under Sam's radar, but she knew it wouldn't last forever. It seemed that Sam had finally had enough of her avoidance.

As she stood at the stove waiting for water to boil, Heather was again wrapped up in the ghost of Crowley's arms, while Sam had already called her name twice and made his way toward her as one would a skittish animal.

"Heather!"

She jumped so hard the handle of the pot caught her flailing hand and flipped down the front of the stove. Heather had escaped being scalded by the hot water thanks to honed reflexes, but the inside of her wrist had caught the bottom of the pot as it had catapulted from the burner. She hissed, reaching for the spigot and sighing at the relief of cold water cascading over her blistering skin.

Sam was not idle. He had readily grabbed one of the first aid kits Dean had smartly stashed at varying points all over the bunker. He was prepared with burn cream and gauze the moment Heather shut off the water to better examine the burn.

"Here, let me." Sam was so kind, sometimes it made Heather's heart hurt a little bit. Especially when she could barely look him in the eyes for the guilt that ate away at her.

She placed her care into Sam's capable hands and just watched the strong, sure movements of his fingers as he worked. He appeared completely absorbed in the task.

She frowned at her own jealous longing to be so occupied. No matter how she had tried to divert her mind, it seemed that nothing could keep it long distracted. Memories didn't care if she was washing a dish, adding to her journal, or, apparently, making soup…Crowley was always prowling in the background, waiting to step into the spotlight. It was beyond infuriating, and at the same time, they were the only moments of peace she had known for the last three days; the only times all of the hurt simply vanished. But Crowley _was_ pain. He was a demon who _caused_ pain, _reveled_ in pain, and at the moment, was the _source_ of most of Heather's emotional and mental pain. The paradox made her vision blur.

She realized Sam had been talking as she slowly came out of her self-deprecating reveries. She needed to snap out of it; she wasn't the sort to woolgather, so it was a red herring for wandering thoughts to become visible in her actions.

"…but you looked kind of…Heather?"

Heather's focus cleared and she met the troubled brown eyes of the one person to whom she hardly ever lied. Sam was her judgment free zone.

"I had sex with Crowley." She hadn't meant to blurt it out so casually, not really. But, it was out there, and Sam didn't even look stunned.

He looked livid.

The medical tape Sam had been about to secure to the bandage, fluttered from his fingers like a useless malted feather. His lips pursed and nose began to twitch as he drew in deep, controlled breaths. Heather could see Sam's muscles shifting into the intimidating defensive stance that was so natural to the Winchesters. He backed away from Heather, leaving her to pale in anxiety as he continued to react in a manner that was, by her, wholly unexpected. He turned away and looked to be leaving the kitchen when he suddenly whirled around and planted his massive form in the doorway.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"

"I..."

"You _fucked_…CROWLEY?! You let him…"

"Sam please, you're scaring me." She realized the mistake a second too late.

"_I'm_ scaring you? _Me_?" Sam stared her down with enough force that she backed up a step.

She often forgot that Sam could be as frightening as Dean, if not more so.

"Sam…"

"You let that…_fucking demon_ touch you, but you're afraid of _me._" Nothing about his toned indicated he was asking a question.

"_No!_ I'm not _afraid_ of _you_, Sam. But, I…you're reacting like…" Heather was adamantly calm, but still losing what little grip she'd had on the conversation to start.

"Like what Heather?! How am I reacting? Like someone I care about willing slept with a _demon_, and not just any _demon_, but _Crowley_? I mean, Jesus Christ, the _dreams _I saw…" Sam brought his hands up and pulled the hair back from his forehead, linking his fingers together like he was trying keep is head from flying off his neck. "I guess at least I know he didn't _rape_ you!"

Heather cringed hard at the jab, but not as hard as when Castiel suddenly appeared in the doorway behind the seething Winchester.

"Sam, Heather…what's going on?"

"Oh good Cas, you're here. Heather was just telling me that she and Crowley were having sex while Dean and _Gadreel_ went on living _my _life." Sam continued his uncharacteristic sarcasm.

Cas looked to Heather.

She tried to meet the angel's eyes but could barely see through the tears of humiliation and shame that had gathered to smear her vision.

Cas stayed silent as Heather looked away, and he looked back to Sam.

"I know." Cas sounded as though he could have been acknowledging that they sky is blue.

The angel's eyes moved to peer from their corners as one side of his mouth curled up in a small smile of understanding. Heather couldn't hold back the grateful hum that squeezed through her tear chocked throat.

Before Sam's major bitch-scoff could become a full blown tantrum, Castiel inserted himself into the distance between his two hunter friends.

"Cas! You already knew…"

Cas spoke calmly but firmly over Sam's ranting. "Yes Sam. Dean informed me. He and I discussed it, and decided that Heather was more than capable of making her own decisions. And as long as she didn't attempt to assist Crowley in escaping, or exhibit any signs that Crowley had harmed her, we decided to stay out of it until she asked for our assistance."

Heather was no less bemused than Sam to learn about the conversation. She knew Dean was aware of the extent to which her _interactions_ with Crowley had progressed, and it was only wise to assume if Dean knew, then Cas did as well. She had even suspected, rightly so, that it would concern them enough to create discussion on a course of action, should they need to intervene. What she had not expected to hear, was that they had trusted she'd be able to handle herself. _That_ kind of faith, coming from _Dean_, filled in a tiny portion of the emptiness that had grown over the past few days.

"Dean would never…" Sam shook his head. "Right, so it's fine then. Nothing to worry about." Sam was a little less tense, but no less angry.

Castiel turned and gave Heather a falsely confident look. "Crowley is no longer a prisoner in this bunker. He cannot enter unless he is accompanied, or summoned…"

"Exactly Cas!" Sam's arm shot out in front of him, his fingers pushed together to point accusingly at Heather, who was still too stunned to move. "If you and Dean knew she was _fucking _Crowley, then you know that she's been playing around with witch craft! She _used_ it on _Kevin_. Who's to say she won't summon Crowley in the middle of the night for a god damn booty call?"

"I don't see the need for vulgarity but…"

Heather was suddenly frothing with indignant outrage, but still too shaken to bite out little else than the basest of insults. "Go fuck yourself Sam Winchester."

Sam, his eye twitching with the effort to hold back, shook his head again and scowled before abruptly turning and striding from the kitchen.

For a few seconds, Heather scrutinized the empty space he'd left behind, trying to determine if she still wanted to cry, or break something. She looked down at the gauze slowly unraveling from her wrist. Masculine fingers were suddenly at the task that Sam had abandoned. Heather observed their tender work as Cas' deeply intoned voice rumbled softly to her ears.

"He misses Dean."

Heather huffed with little energy. "He's _angry_ at Dean. And I pushed him over the edge, it would seem."

"Yes." Cas ripped new medical tape from the roll. "Still, he should not have reacted like that. I'm actually a bit concerned." Cas secured the tape into place and vanished his hands from her field of sight.

"Don't be." She reached up and encircled her right hand around the injured and wrapped left wrist. "He's in pain. People do strange things when they're in pain."

Cas tilted his head without saying the words that were so plainly written on his face.

Heather looked up and gave him a wry smile. "Don't worry about me Cas. I'm good. You and Dean trusted me before, yeah? Well, don't stop now, ok?"

Cas nodded with a deep breath, and lately familiar frown, before he turned and slowly walked out.

Heather looked back down and squeezed her wrist over where she knew the burn to be, as Sam's booming voice echoed in her subconscious. Suddenly, physical pain didn't seem as distressing as it once had.

XxXxX

Of all the words in his self-proclaimed _tremendous_ vocabulary, _antsy_ was the only word he could come up with to describe how he'd felt in the past week.

Crowley had escaped _team free will _to go on the run from Abbadon, but he didn't want to seem like he was hiding. So, he'd taken residence in a sweet little villa in southern Greece; once having belonged to the eviscerated dead man in the closet.

It had taken five days for the man to die of continued blood loss, but Crowley wasn't overly concerned with the corpse. After two nights in a row of disturbing dreams; ones that replayed Cain's words as he found himself brutally fucking Heather on a blood soaked carpet; he forwent rest, as all demons were capable of doing. But the dreams didn't go away; they morphed into daytime fancies of the most embarrassing kind. Being called out of a daydream by knocking at his office door, only to find he had a very visible and unfulfilled erection, was on his never-to-do-again list.

That humiliating moment had taken place two days before, when his blood supply had still been half full. He didn't trust another demon with the task of finding him a replacement, but he wasn't exactly able to wander about without drawing some sort of demonic attention.

Abbadon had all her feelers out. She knew exactly where he was, where he went, and what he did when he got there, if he wasn't very careful. No chance it would go unreported if he went out, plucked up a random human, and zapped them back to the villa.

The incessant tapping of his finger ceased against the arm rest of an antique Empire settee, and a smile dragged across his face as a flamboyant doorbell sang through the halls of the villa.

The woman on the other side of the door smirked coyly and bid him a good evening in flowing Italian. The black tweed and lace Chanel dress she wore was a testament to how expensive and talented Grecian call girls could be. She had long wavy brown hair that brushed the side of her breast as it was swept seductively to the left. Her eyes were unfortunately brown, but she was busty and curvy, and short enough to be considered petite. Her skin was much too tan, lips too thin, and voice on the wrong side of husky, but the service had matched his requests in as many aspects as they could. The woman before him was absolutely striking; but she was still the wrong woman.

Earlier in the day, before the sun had begun its plunge toward the mountainous horizon, Crowley had decided to believe that Cain's intention had been to distract him from the hunt; from skewering Abbadon. The first Knight had become a lonely, sad, pathetic, _suicidal_ excuse for a demon. Things may have become a bit more hectic than anticipated, but Crowley had by no means given up on his life, as Cain seemed to have done. Any wisdom the original first born son had to impart was meant for the ears of someone who had nothing left to fight for, and that wasn't Crowley. He would take back his kingdom because _it_ was worth the battle; not some pitiable human whose life would be over in less than 70 years; a ridiculous girl who was too observant for her own good; the woman with eyes so kind and understanding, it felt like she wrapped you in the warmth and light of her soul every time she looked at you…

"Mr. Crowley?" The call girl's heavily accented voice snuck up on him, though she sounded as though she had repeated his name at least once before catching his attention.

"Yes," he smirked, "come in, please." He extended his hand to her, in which she settled her fingers as he led her over the threshold with exaggerated manners.

She smiled demurely and cunningly took in the expensive surroundings. Crowley admired her from the back, as he inquired about her name.

"Puoi chiamarmi Violet." She extended her hand for him to kiss in greeting.

He smiled at the hand and imagined what it would look like once it was dangling in chains hanging from the clothes bar of the closet. He was suddenly very glad he had moved the former owners' corpse to the basement before making the phone call.

The woman almost faltered, her instincts perhaps telling her that she wasn't in a good situation, before Crowley finally took hold of her hand and laid a gentle kiss to the curve of her middle knuckle.

"E 'un piacere conoscerti Violet. Avete, per caso, parli inglese?"

"Si. I also speak French, Japanese, and Russian." She smiled and slid her fingers along his as her hand fell back to rest against her shapely hip.

"Mmm, a woman of the world." Crowley leered at her as she smiled and licked her lips.

"People come from all over the world to wonder at the beauty of my country. It is best to be prepared for any situation." She winked.

Crowley couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, nor argue with the thought that the poor woman had walked into a situation for which she could never have been prepared.

XxXxX

The next morning Crowley awoke to crusty eyes, sandpaper tongue, an ominously sticky groin region, and what would have been a pounding headache, had he been human. As it was, no matter what he wanted to call it, it still felt like John Bonham was playing Stairway to Heaven, using his skull as the bass drum.

There was a faintly distressed weeping, muffled by the closet door, which pecked at the pulsating vein in his temple as the crying grew more shrill. Crowley glanced over to the closed door and squeezed his eyes shut against the noise, only to have an image of the terrified half naked woman's face spear through his mind.

His fingertips brushed lightly against the plunger of an empty, used syringe. Despite the epic song being played against his head, he sat up clutching the needle, swung his legs out of bed and lumbered toward the closet, ripping the door open hard enough for the hinges to exhale a worrying creak.

The woman shrieked through her gag and tried to scoot away from Crowley, who froze as he suddenly realized how out of his mind he must have looked; how absolutely rabidly insane the prostitute, Violet, must have assumed him to be. Even if physically he was still holding it together, his eyes raged with emotion.

_He_ would have been afraid of him.

Crowley dropped the still empty needle and waved his hand, vanishing the chains and gag from the terrified woman.

"Go." He croaked, holding his arm out and pointing toward the open bedroom door.

Violet didn't need to be told twice. She scrambled to her stiletto-ed feet and dashed for the door, about to turn the corner and gain her freedom when she heard a loud _crack_, like a tree branch breaking.

Crowley decided perhaps it wasn't such a brilliant idea to allow some random human to run around with the information that he'd been keeping human pets in order to inject their blood. He'd lifted his hand and twisted it at the wrist, instantly snapping Violet's neck.

As Crowley rolled her body into position to zap to the basement, he brushed the hair from her face and thought that she didn't look so much like Heather after all. Her blood hadn't even been that great of a substitute for the sweetness of humanity. Violet, obviously, had not been one for the confessional. But the experience taught him something important; nothing could stand in for the purity of Heather's company.

Cain's words suddenly sounded more right than they ever had wrong. Crowley was going about it backwards. Pushing Heather away was only weakening him during a time when he needed to be at his strongest. But if she was with him, then he could clear his mind and work on pulling his kingdom back together and having done with the world's angriest ginger. It was a simple enough plan, and he would follow through…even if he had to kidnap Heather to do it.

Author's Note:

Italian: Puoi chiamarmi Violet-You may call me Violet

E 'un piacere conoscerti Violet. Avete, per caso, parli inglese-It is a pleasure to meet you Violet. Do you, by chance, speak English.


	8. Break on through

Thanks for coming back! I know this chapter is shorter than the last two…but I couldn't help it, I just wanted to get it posted for all of my faithful readers. Also, anyone at SDCC, or see a video of the Supernatural panel? Completely fabulous! And any Hemlock Grove fans out there? Just binge-watched season two. Such a strange and interesting show. Anyway, sorry. Reviews are love and inspiration. Enjoy!

I do not own Supernatural…and I never will.

Break on through…

The morning after Sam's blow up, Heather had taken Dorothy's bike and braved the freezing mid-December air, hoping to simultaneously clear her head, and visit the local hardware/general store for a cheap coffee maker. The rest of her day had been spent reading. A no breaks, vision blurring, words making no sense kind of approach to distraction.

It also had the added benefit of keeping her far away from Sam who, according to Cas, was "reacting poorly to the loss of his trust in both you and his brother."

Heather had suggested Cas work on his tact before she abruptly left for a shower.

She eventually fell asleep, where her daytime efforts of diversion held no sway. She dreamed of an angry Sam, and Crowley, of course. It was no longer a surprise, after five days without him, that her smoldering attachment needed to find oxygen somewhere, if she wasn't willing to actively fan it.

The morning after a rather spicy dream involving a blind fold, a riding crop, and a king sized bed, she was staring bleary eyed at the single serving coffee maker that gurgled at a snail's pace across the room. She'd not heard any noise in the hall to precede the rapid knock at her door, and might have been worried it was Sam if she hadn't already heard him pound down the hall for his morning run.

"It is Castiel. May I come in?"

Heather smiled at the angel's obligatory cuteness. "Sure yeah. It's unlocked."

"I thought I might come and say good bye before I left."

Heather bolted upright, her legs unsure whether to stand or stay bent and leaning atop the mattress. "What?!"

"Well, not good bye, as I fully expect we will see one another again. Probably soon if Winchester history is anything to go by. So not good bye, but I'll see you later."

Heather continued to stare blankly at Cas, her mouth open in a wordless gape that made him question if he'd performed the farewell correctly.

"Um, should we hug now? Sam usually insists on hugging when parting ways so…we can hug if you'd like."

"Sam..." His name came out in a hushed exhale as Heather broke out of her confused stupor. "I-I didn't know you were leaving."

Cas shifted, a tad uncomfortable. "Well, Dean is off on a…prolonged hunt, Metatron is gathering support, and Sam is on his way to New Mexico hunting off a tip from someone named Phil. Though…it might have been Bill come to think of it…"

"Wait, Sam left too?"

"Yes. He told me last night that he would be leaving for Santa Teresa, New Mexico to work out a vampire issue for this friend, Phil…or Bill. Anyway, he offered me use of the bunker for as long as I needed, but I informed him that I would be leaving today as well."

Heather released the tense breath she'd been holding and felt incredibly bad for being happy that she wouldn't be left in the bunker without a buffer between Sam. Then it hit her that she would be left in the bunker _alone_, and she suddenly didn't want Cas to leave all over again.

"I understand Sam went on a hunt, but why are _you_ leaving Cas? I mean, as far as we all know, you're still heaven's most wanted. You go out there alone and you'll be painting a giant target on your back. Isn't it smarter, or even just _safer_, if you stayed here?"

Cas' answering smile told her that he had expected this exact argument, as he had probably already been through it with Sam.

"You are right of course. It is both smarter and safer for me to stay here; but I can't. I can't hide away in here while so many of my brothers and sisters are out there afraid, alone, hopeless…I think I can help them. Like I told Sam, I still think Metatron is the key to fixing everything, but I won't be able to do that, no one will, unless Heaven has a united front to stand against Metatron and his ilk. I know if I can find them, I can help them band together and fight back."

Heather nodded solemnly at the sad truth of the situation and Castiel's reticent desire to help put right what had gone wrong. She smiled tearfully.

"Well Cas if anyone can lead them, it's you." She had been trying for encouragement, but realized almost immediately that she had said something wrong.

"I'm no leader Heather. But if I can bring them together then maybe…I don't know. I just know that I need to do something."

She nodded. "Guilt can be a powerful motivator. _The_ most powerful, sometimes."

Cas, for once, understood the veiled reference to her own feelings toward the situation with Sam. "Yes, well if it works, then I'll take it."

Heather smiled warmly at the angel she would worry about from the moment he left her sight. "Listen Cas, I know Dean gave you a phone, but I want you to take this one too." She rummaged through her _go bag_ and pulled out a generic throw away cell to slap into his palm. "My number is already programmed, and it's the only number in there. I'd suggest keeping it that way since you already have the brothers numbers on your other phone."

"Thank you Heather but I don't think I'll require use of another phone. Please don't waste it on me." He tried to hand it back but Heather took it and slipped it into a pocket on his updated tan coat.

"Just humor me, huh. Dean usually carries like, three phones. So do I. There's no harm in being prepared."

"I suppose you're right." Cas patted at his pockets absent-mindedly.

The past few months had definitely turned her into the weepy sort as she brushed away a tear that escaped from the corner of her eye. "Well don't be a stranger. Call, if you need anything. And uh, be careful ok. Stay on your guard. God, I feel like a mother sending her child off to summer camp for the first time." She chuckled without humor.

Cas wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "Usually when Dean insults me he is much more straight forward than that, so I'm going to assume you meant it in a nice way."

Her responding laugh definitely had some humor to it. "Now we should hug."

Cas was learning to enjoy hugging, while Heather squeezed herself against his chest, fitting nicely beneath his chin as she wrapped her arms around him while she still had the chance. Closed gates or not, the angel still radiated peace and comfort.

"I'll miss you." She admitted into his coat.

"Thank you. I'll miss you as well, and I will stay in touch."

Cas moved to the door, turning for one last look at his friend. "Also, try to forgive Sam. I know it sounds diffi…"

"There's nothing to forgive Cas. I understand and even empathize with his anger. Doesn't mean I'm anxious to talk it out with him."

"Well, in that case, try to forgive yourself."

Heather was caught off guard by the philosophical nature of the advice. She smiled dumbly at Cas as he left, while his last words to her resounded in her head.

She knew what she needed to do.

The rest of the day she used her time wisely. She went through some of the rarer texts, determining which ones to photocopy to become part of her family's hunter library. She went through the rolodex and took down as many names and addresses of hunters as she thought appropriate. Once she had a nice selection from across the country, she cleaned. By the time she was finished the bunker was tidy enough to look as though nobody lived there which, in a few more hours, would be true.

She'd been idle too long, hiding away in the bunker, pretending it was alright to become friends, or whatever, with a demon while the world outside continued to fall apart, _and_ she hadn't even noticed that Dean had stuffed some angel inside of his brother, her friend.

She was trying to remind herself that she was an exceptional hunter, with a great mind, a worthwhile mission, and friends who loved and cared about her, no matter how angry or far away they might have been. She needed to forgive herself for any mistakes, take a hint from Dean, Sam, and Cas, and move on.

She had never stayed with the boys long enough to realize that they lived their daily lives at DefCon 1, and though it was something she could handle, it seemed the ride was over, for the moment at least. If she was going to be on her own anyway, it was better she went back to her life than rot away useless and forgotten in the halls of the bunker.

She just needed to put them behind her; _all_ of them. She chalked up the whole Crowley situation to a twisted manifestation of Stockholm syndrome, or Florence Nightingale syndrome…one of the syndromes that meant it was a fluke, it was over, and would never happen again. He was a lesson learned; she just wished she could figure out the lesson before vowing to never think about him again.

XxXxX

Crowley would have kicked himself for the hundredth time that night for being so careless in watching his surroundings, if the demon currently kicking him down an embankment and into the road wasn't doing such a fantastic job already.

Crowley groaned and spat blood as his face collided with dirt and stone. The possessed black eyed woman stalked forward in her house coat with a crowbar again raised above her head about to swing down and strike again; only Crowley would see it before impact this time. The faint roar of an engine preceded the glare of headlights illuminating Crowley's demonic foe, distracting her long enough for Crowley to kick her hard in the shin and roll into the underbrush. The demon stumbled and dropped its weapon before scurrying back up the small hill and disappearing into the woods as the car came to a dusty halt.

The door of a classic car swung open and a booted foot crunched the gravel on the road as Crowley played possum in the bushes. He heard nothing at first; then, a beautiful sound broke through the silence of the night.

"Crowley!? Crooowleeeey!?"

"Heather." His chest ached around an imprint of the crowbar as he pushed the volume of his voice so she'd hear him over the rumble of the car engine.

Footsteps hurried toward him, finally hands pulled apart the foliage to reveal him bleeding and struggling to sit up.

"Jesus Christ." She uttered under her breath.

"Not quite love, but close." He gasped against the pain in his kidney, probably bleeding into the abdominal cavity of his meatsuit.

She intoned his name with a tight expression as she worked to pull him to his feet, out of the brush. The demon sprinting back to town wasn't even a thought in her head as she got him standing, only to have him grasp her arm as he swayed to the left.

"Ok, steady. I thought you said we had to stop meeting like this?"

Crowley couldn't afford the energy that a laugh would consume, so he hummed as the world continued to spin around him.

"I think…I think perhaps I'd like to sit down." Crowley gave no more warning than that before leaning heavily against the car still idling in the road in front of the bunkers entrance.

Heather glanced carefully at the door, and then back to Crowley as he blinked repeatedly trying to clear the double vision that often accompanied a blow to the head.

"Crowley…"

"Hmm, yes love?" He answered distractedly.

"What are you doing here?"

At last Crowley could feel his demonic power healing his meatsuit. The pain eased and his attention became more focused; entirely focused, in fact, on the voice that sang to his senses. The blurry doppelgangers focused into one perfectly clear vision of Heather; and while she looked concerned, she also seemed a tad on the defensive side. If Crowley didn't know any better he'd have thought she was waiting for him to attack.

"I was just waiting patiently, minding my own business, when the _Abbadon whore_ came at me from behind with that bloody pry bar."

Heather stared at him expressionless and shook her head. "No, Crowley. _Why_ are you here?"

"Oh. Well…you." He croaked out, unsure what else to say as his personality forsook him.

Heather looked thoughtful for a few seconds before squinting in confusion.

"Me." She said it to herself, as if he had disappeared.

She could not believe what was happening. The irony of her life washed over her in a suffocating wave of past choices.

She had been ready to drive off into the sunset and head back to Montana to resume her old life. She'd called it moving on…but knew one couldn't _go back_ while still _moving forward_. She turned up to look at Crowley who had been openly watching her reaction.

What stood before her was new and different and unexpected.

_And dangerous, and stupid, and ostracizing…_

She had feared becoming bored since she was the only one left in the bunker. But, she didn't want to go back, she wanted something to fight against, or for.

Dean hadn't wanted her, Sam was disgusted with her, and Cas didn't need her. But Crowley had come back for her. And if it wasn't going to be a _fight_ being with Crowley, then she didn't understand the definition of the word.

"Ok."

Crowley blinked owlishly at her and she giggled; a sound she hadn't made since childhood.

"Come on handsome, before I realize what a bad idea this is."

Crowley didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially one that he was seconds from grabbing and making passionate love to, but he couldn't shake the assumption that this should have been more difficult.

"Really? I've not even told you why I want you or where we're going…"

Heather finally reached up and settled into the familiar pose of her hands at his jaw. "I don't care. Just take me out of here."


	9. If the boat's a rockin'

Welcome back, delighted to have you all. I do apologize for any mistakes that have slipped past my critical eye, as I do not have a beta. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone. Please feel free to point them out if you find them, as I know it can become rather irritating to have to read through repeated errors. Anyway, thank you to everyone that took the time to type a few words. It means a lot to me, even if you're just begging for more chapters J.

This chapter is rated M.

I do not own Supernatural…and never will.

If the boat's a rockin'…

Crowley openly admired Heather as she sunbathed on the deck of a million dollar yacht confiscated at the end of a contract come due.

He'd noticed she would only ever wear a one piece with a cover up when they were on the beach, even the private one attached to the Westin resort. When he had taken her out on The Fair Lady the second day they were in Guam, she had ascended from below decks wearing a blue and white tankini, sans cover up. So, the next morning Crowley made a call and an hour later a small package was delivered to their suite. When Heather had finished showering, Crowley had ushered her into the black Porsche Boxer and drove them to the pier a few miles away, where they again boarded The Fair Lady, and sailed out until the shore was beyond the curve of the horizon.

The scenic island of Guam was located around 600 miles from the Mariana Trench; the deepest part of any ocean in the world. It would take a good number of trips to search the entire trench, but the moment Heather had emerged wearing the simple and incredibly sexy Emma Brazilian Black bikini he'd ordered, it suddenly didn't seem like such a burden having to spend so much time on the ocean.

And so that's where he'd found himself, nearly drooling as Heather lay oblivious to the fantasies cultivating in his lascivious mind. They had by no means been celibate since he had dashed her away from the bunker three days prior. That night, he had zapped them to the most affluent hotel suite he could think of planning to spend the night either buried inside her, or lightly sleeping with her encased in his arms, before waking up to ravage each other all over again. She had stamina, but by morning even she was starting to stay asleep longer each time they'd drifted off. He'd not exactly been keen on ferreting out her reasons for willingly following him, just as he had no desire to discuss his own reasons for wanting her with him. Sex had been, and continued to be, the perfect distraction from such philosophical ponderings.

The sex hadn't exactly been vanilla, but for some reason Crowley had felt the need to restrain his many kinks the past three days; namely his desire to tie her down and overwhelm her with pleasure until she begged him to stop. But a little voice in his head had kept whispering something about trust. Crowley knew what it was talking about, but he'd never held back with any other partner he'd had: human, demon, man, woman…he had taken his pleasure in any way he wished and never feared stepping on something as insignificant as _trust_. But looking at Heather, as she removed her sunglasses and blinked into the sun, Crowley felt a need to not only gain her trust, but to never, ever break it.

Heather used her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she set her sunglasses aside, afraid to end up with an entirely embarrassing tan line on her face. She craned her neck up and looked around at the miles of ocean surrounding the state of the art yacht, before her eyes landed on Crowley leaning against the upper deck railing. It was so odd to see him out of the suit and tie. He was barefoot, and of course still wore black, but his button down was loose and untucked, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his pants were casual and lightly whipping in the breeze off the water. The triangle of chest hair revealed by his undone buttons topped off the look wonderfully. He looked delicious…and normal. When her eyes finished working over his physical form she met his hazel gaze and felt her skin heat with a blush.

"You're staring." She said turning away and biting her bottom lip as she searched for the alcoholic beverage on the table next to her.

"So were you." Crowley sly reply was punctuated with a wink.

Heather smiled and lay her head back closing her eyes. "Yeah, but I bet you've been staring longer."

"You're right," Crowley's voice was closer, "I was staring much longer. But with the way you look, how could I not? Why do you think I waited to purchase that sexy little scrap of material until I knew we'd be spending the day alone in the middle of nowhere?" His shadow fell over her as he began to lean down, pulling an ice cube from his glass at the same time. "Because if I had allowed you to parade around in front of other men looking as you do, I would have had to kill an entire beach of humans."

Heather's smile was pulling widely across her face as she both imagined his theoretical rampage, and wondered, eyes still shut, what he was doing simply sitting on the edge of the lounge chair next to her hip. The chill of ice shivered over the skin of her chest as Crowley danced the cube across her lightly tanned skin.

She didn't exclaim his name in anger or try to scurry away from the surprise of the cold; she jumped and gave a tremble, but otherwise seemed pleased with his impromptu actions. Crowley kept watch on her fluttering eyelids as he dipped his head and licked up the path of a drop of water that had trailed between her breasts. The contact drew a breathy moan from her chest as her ribcage expanded, pushing against the warm wetness of his tongue.

She'd learned by then not to rush him. Crowley seemed to take as much pleasure in examining and unwrapping a gift as he did in playing with it afterwards. She kept her hands at her sides, short nails scratching absently against the thin cushion beneath her. It wasn't the most comfortable chair, but in the past few days she had come to also learn that she could have sex with him atop a pile of broken glass, and he'd still have her screaming his name in tandem with his thrusts.

It was strange to smell the saltiness of the sea mix with the deeply pleasing scent she had come to associate with Crowley. Her breath hitched on a deep inhale and she giggled as Crowley's fingertips danced up the left side of her ribcage, the only place she was slightly ticklish. The giggle turned to a hum of pleasure as he trailed his hand over the curve of her shoulder and down her arm, past the healed burn, thanks to Crowley's witchy knowledge, to entwine his finger with hers. As he lifted her left arm he gave the same treatment to the right and finally settled, his chest lightly pushing down against hers, their hands locked together against the cushion above Heather's head.

At the sensation of being caged in Heather's eyes snapped open. Sex or otherwise, she had never enjoyed the sensation of being pinned down. Otherwise restrained; she had "dated" a guy once who liked trying out rodeo knots on her in bed; but being held down was not on the approved checklist. Heather's arms tensed and she discretely tested her range of movement by squeezing Crowley's hands and repositioning them more comfortably. He offered no resistance against her movements, and kept his eyes locked to hers, their noses inches apart. Heather smiled softly, finding something in his eyes that reminded her she didn't have to worry, even while a voice in her head nagged that she was an idiot. She consciously overruled the voice and leaned up to capture his mouth, but paused suddenly when something in his eyes changed. His entire expression softened and he was instantly on her, parting her lips with his tongue, and throwing every ounce of affection possible into the gently urgent kiss.

When he pulled back Heather sucked in a much needed breath as Crowley rested his forehead against hers. She was still conquered by the power behind the kiss when he started speaking.

"You don't like this." He squeezed her hands to the cushion and put slightly more weight on her chest, emphasizing what he meant.

It hadn't really been a question, but Heather's eyes lazily drew open as she answered. "Not really."

Crowley seemed to consider something before answering. "But you didn't push me away."

"No."

"Why?"

She had much preferred responding to questions that weren't actually questions, as the only answer she had to "why" was that she trusted him…and they both knew she shouldn't.

"Does it matter?" She redirected, trying to twist her neck into position to guide him into another kiss.

He pulled back slightly and wasn't deterred. "It matters." He kept his tone plain and let his eyes ask for the truth.

"Why?" She wasn't putting forth her best deflective effort, because somewhere inside she really wanted to tell him.

"Because I want to hear it."

"Crowley…"

"Please."

Waves lapped against the side of the yacht, and somewhere to the east a sea bird called out, but Crowley and Heather remained in mutually shocked silence. Neither one of them, it seemed, expected _that_ word to leave his mouth in the ardent tone with which he'd spoken; it broke her resolve.

"Because I trust you."

Crowley sat back and tried to disentangle their fingers, but she gained leverage and pulled herself into a sitting position, refusing to let go. They were both so far out of their respective elements, and she could see that he was thinking entirely too much for the moment.

Without releasing his hands she maneuvered her body astride his lap and pulled his hands behind her waist, making sure they stayed before she let go, and locked her arms around his neck.

"I don't want to talk anymore. I don't want to think or analyze, or worry if what we're doing is the worst idea anyone has ever had, or heard of in the history of human kind. Right now, I want you to pull on the string dangling a couple inches above your fingers, and rid me of this bothersome bathing suit top."

The intensity of his stare exploded with the dilation of his pupils. The hug of material loosened as the untied strings tickled the skin of her lower back. Crowley's hands were sliding up behind her neck, her hair out of the way in a messy bun atop her head, to loosen the strings there as well. They let the top fall between them without breaking eye contact. Her hands worked from the back of his head to rest at his jaw. If not for the faint rocking of the boat and heat of the sun beating down on them, she would have been back in the dungeon, treating wounds that wouldn't heal because of the chains in which he was kept. If any part of her had expected to be in his lap again under entirely different circumstances, it was as unconscious a part as the one that understood _why_ she was in his lap again under entirely different circumstances.

Conscious or not, her hips didn't give a damn as they began grinding down against him in teasingly circular motion.

"No-no more talking." Crowley tossed the bathing suit top onto the twin lounge next to them.

His tongue swirled patterns against hers that she attempted to follow to the point of dizziness. She had finally relaxed into the situation that morning, and Crowley was taking that relaxation and turning it to a pleasure coma as his fingers teased the sides of her breasts. She kept her hands at his jaw even as he skirted to the curve of her neck gently kissing and nipping at her thrumming pulse. He licked his way to just beneath her chin before biting at the curve of her jaw, something he'd found to consistently rip a moan from her chest.

She was enormously glad that Crowley was capable of sailing the yacht sans crew as she shouted her pleasure into the winds of the Pacific.

Crowley picked her up and Heather gave a squeak at the unexpected movement. He laid her down on the chair as she had been before, and crawled over top of her. He held himself there, not placing any pressure on her as he began kissing his way down her chest, paying singular attention to each nipple with his mouth, never leaving the other unstimulated as his fingers worked at a pace contrary to his tongue. He knew it'd make her head spin, and when her chest began to heave with panted breaths he grinned against the skin of her stomach as he kissed a path across her hips and back up again. Her hands sifted into his hair as his name whispered through her lips while he continued to kiss the under curve of each breast.

They had been at each other on numerous surfaces in a variety of positions, but they had never done missionary. Crowley rarely cared, as it was usually the most boring and limiting of the sexual positions. But this time his instincts were leading him to part her legs and settle above her, as his fingers began the task of sliding down her bikini bottom. Knowing she had allowed him to cage her in when she normally would have absconded, kept his pace slow and delicate. He wanted to her to show him her limits, and he wanted to carry her past them; but that would have to wait, he told himself. That pesky _trust_ again.

Crowley easily raised her legs into the air in front of him as he pulled the bottoms over her feet. He tossed them aside and took hold of her ankles, kissing the backs of both calves and paying special mind to the sensitive skin behind the knees. She keened and whined as he journeyed across the insides of her thighs when he finally parted and released her legs to set comfortably on the chair on either side of him. He began unbuttoning his shirt as Heather's hazy gaze landed on his fingers. Before she could reach up to take over, Crowley snapped his fingers and banished the annoying clothing to some corner of hell.

He loomed over her again as her knees bent up to press against his hips, her feet restlessly rubbing the backs of his thighs as he ran his tongue across her bottom lip. She pressed up against his lips as he slipped inside of her, slowly, until his hips were trembling to stay still against hers. He loved this moment, when they first connected and she moaned into his mouth, as she was doing with abandon while they were so secluded.

She took in the air her lungs burned for and exhaled his name in a plea. He rocked forward deeply before pulling back and sliding out at a pace he knew they both normally considered too slow. But the intensity of his skin against hers burned as hot as if he'd been slamming into her whispering dirty things into her hair as she came around him. This time wasn't as rough, but it hit much harder.

She had put it out there. She trusted him, and it was his turn to show his intentions toward that show of vulnerability.

His elbow were holding his weight fine, until Heather's restless scratching at his back and sides became an unmistakable pulling of his body to rest atop hers. He gave in slowly as he paused his rhythm, and her eyes opened. She pulled at him until he was pressed flush against her, not a space between them, touching in nearly every possible way once she leaned up to place an open eyed peck to the corner of his mouth. She circled her legs behind him and locked her ankles, pushing him deeper inside of her. She contracted her muscles with a sly smirk as Crowley's eyes fluttered and he chuckled. They smiled at one another for a few seconds, searching each others faces and finding exactly what they'd hoped to find before Crowley again rocked forward. Heather's eyes stayed open, watching him. Crowley had never done this particular dance before. He knew all the steps, the dips, the twirls; but he faltered under a gaze that he knew saw something better in him than he ever had.

Her hips almost came off the lounge as she bucked up into him, meeting him thrust for thrust. Crowley was suddenly locked out of his own head and could only see Heather beneath him begging with every inch of her being for him not to fuck this up.

They panted in unison as he felt the ripple of her muscles seconds before she was clenching around him and releasing his name in a long drawn out moan that shivered through Crowley's bones, and had him erupting into his own rendition of her name on his breath. He rocked her through the aftershocks until the torture of ecstasy melted from her face to be replaced by a lazy and satisfied smile. Her arms tightened behind his back and she coaxed him into relaxing on top of her, as his arms still shook from the intensity of his orgasm. He groaned into her neck as she shifted beneath him. He pressed against her, yet unwillingly to break their connection.

Heather kissed his temple and nuzzled against the shell of his ear whispering her desire to sleep. Crowley had never known himself to want to sleep so much as he did knowing he'd be able to do so holding Heather in his arms. But there was a job to do, and despite the guilt he was beginning to feel, a small part of his plan had been to fuck her into a sated coma.

He snapped his fingers and they reappeared in the bedroom below decks. Heather snuggled into Crowley's shoulder as she turned and pressed her body flush against his side. Before she drifted off she pressed her lips against his skin and mumbled a thank you.

Crowley lay there almost an hour before he could make himself get up, get dressed and get his ass down to the bottom of the damn ocean; all while Heather's voice continued to whisper her thanks in the vault of his mind.


End file.
